SALEM 

«R» 

AND 


• 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

Professor  Aram  Tor os si an 


I  f. 


Salem    Kittredge 

and  Other  Stories 


GIFT 


TO    MY    FATHER 


Ift-AAM 


163 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Salem  Kit tr edge,   Theologue,      ...  / 

The  Char's  Diamond, 89 

By  the  III,      775 

Lombardy  Poplars,  .     .• 7^5 

The  Phenix, 76^ 

The  Commonest  Possible  Story,      .     .  205 

An  Incorrigible  Poet, 279 

Number  Three, 249 

* 
At  Sesenheim, 


Salem  Kittredge 

Theologue 


SALEM  KITTREDGE, 
THEOLOGUE 

I. 

IT  always  seemed  to  Salem  Kittredge  that 
his  heels  clicked  more  noisily  than  other 
men's  upon  the  floor  of  a  hotel  office,  and 
this  uncomfortable  impression  was  renewed 
as  he  stepped  up  to  the  desk  of  the  Parker 
House. 

"  If  Mr.  Pitman  should  call  for  me,  will  you 
tell  him  that  I  am  here  ?  ' ' 

* '  What  name  ?  ' '  said  the  clerk,  without 
looking  up. 

"Pitman  —  J.  Howard  Pitman.  Oh,  you 
mean  my  name?  Mr.  Kittredge — Salem  Kit 
tredge.  It's  rather  sultry,  isn't  it?  " 

' '  Excuse  me  ?  ' ' 

"  I  said  it  was  hot." 

The  clerk's  only  reply  to  this  tentative  friend 
liness  was  to  push  back  his  skull-cap,  wipe  his 
forehead,  and  yawn  assentingly.  The  tall 
young  man  in  black  turned  awkwardly  away, 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 


and  walked  over  to  one  of  the  big  leather 
chairs  by  the  window.  As  he  seated  himself, 
he  pulled  out  a  silver  watch,  for  the  tenth  time 
in  the  last  hour,  and  found  that  he  still  had 
seven  or  eight  minutes  to  wait.  With  a  nerv 
ously  directed  handkerchief  he  flapped  the  dust 
of  Andover  and  the  B.  &  M.  Road  from  off  his 
shoes,  and  then  he  drew  a  telegram  from  his 
pocket.  Once  more  he  read,  "  Meet  me  at 
Parker  House,  ten  o'clock,  Thursday,  without 
fail,"  and  wondered  again  who  J.  Howard  Pit 
man  was,  and  what  he  could  want  of  a  post 
graduate  student  of  theology.  In  absently 
folding  the  telegram,  his  eye  wandered  to  a 
newspaper  lying  on  the  window-sill.  There  in 
the  advertising  columns  was  the  name  that  had 
perplexed  him.  He  had  seen  it  a  thousand 
times  :  Pitmari s  Primitive  Pellets,  in  audacious 
type,  and  underneath  it  the  familiar  face — bald, 
hard -eyed,  heavy-mustached — and  the  scrawled 
signature. 

He  was  still  examining  the  trade-mark  when 
the  proprietor  of  the  pellets  hurried  in,  crossed 
the  office  straight  toward  Kittredge,  and  put 
out  his  hand. 

"  And  you're  Salem  Kittredge,"  he  said. 
"  Look  just  like  your  father,  don't  you?  Your 
father  'n  I  used  to  go  to  school  together  up  in 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologue 


Burridge ;  little  red  school-house,  just  above  the 
Forks.  There  yet,  ain't  it?  Le'  me  see,  how 
long  is  it  since  your  father  died  ?  " 

"Six  years,"  replied  Salem,  who  was  still 
standing,  holding  Mr.  Pitman's  hand,  and  con 
scious  that  the  clerk  was  looking  at  him. 

"  Well,  well  !  Now  I  shouldn't  have  heard 
of  you  at  all,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Professor 
Bibb — sit  down,  sit  down.  Nehemiah  Bibb 
says  that  you're  the  young  man  I'm  looking  for, 
he  thinks." 

Salem  smiled  intelligently. 

"Bibb  came  from  up  in  Burridge,  too.  Knew 
your  father  well ;  and  the  other  day  I  was  tell 
ing  him  what  I  had  in  mind,  and  he  said  he 
was  sure  you'd  be  just  the  man."  Pitman 
pushed  his  chair  closer  and  lowered  his  voice  as 
he  went  on.  "  You  see,  it's  about  my  boy 
Freddie — the  only  boy  I've  got.  He's  twenty- 
three  years  old  next  month,  but  he  ain't  much 
of  a  comfort  to  me,  nor  to  his  mother.  He 
ain't  a  bad  boy — not  really  a  bad  boy ;  but  he 
has  a  little — difficulty — Freddie  has,  and  about 
six  or  eight  times  a  year  he  has  it  rough,  I  tell 
you  !  He's  a  nice,  pleasant -spoken  fellow,  and 
he's  keen  ;  he  can  run  the  Works — the  Pellet 
Works,  youVe  heard  of  'em  ? — as  well  as  I  can, 
when  he's  straight,  and  he  was  always  a  good 

.  5 


Salem  Kittredge,  Tbeologue 


scholar  when  he'd  a  mind  to  be.  Freddie's  all 
right,  when  he  is  all  right. ' ' 

"Did  he  go  through  college?"  inquired 
Salem,  sympathetically.  "You  spoke  of  his 
being  a  good  student." 

"One  year — almost  a  year,  anyway  —  and 
then  he  had  to  leave.  They  didn't  want  him 
at  Cambridge,  they  said  ;  they  were  very  polite 
about  it,  but  they  didn't  want  him." 

"It  was  his  scholarship?"  ventured  Kit 
tredge. 

"  No,  it  was  a  cock-fight;  "  and  a  smile 
quavered  a  moment  under  the  great  mustache. 
"  That  was  over  in  Somerville,  and  that  boy — 
he  wa'n't  but  nineteen — took  seven  hundred 
dollars  out  of  Boston  men  that  ought  to  have 
known  better,  and  I  tell  you  it  went  against 
the  grain — just  a  little  against  the  grain — for 
me  to  make  him  send  it  back.  I  don't  suppose 
the  fight  was  any  worse — between  you  'n  me — 
than  one  we  had  once  up  in  Burridge,  in  your 
grandfather's  barn,  when  your  father  and  Ne- 
hemiah  Bibb  had  their  jackknives  up  on  it ; 
but  that's  neither  here  nor  there. 

"  So  I  had  to  take  him  out,  and  he  wanted 

to   go   on   the  road,"   continued   Mr.  Pitman, 

"and   he  doubled  our  Southern   trade  in   six 

months.     That  boy  got  it  into  his  head  that  the 

6 


Salem  Kit tr edge,   Tbeologne 


Pellets  would  cure  fever  'n  ague" — here  J. 
Howard  Pitman  hesitated,  with  a  whimsical 
droop  of  the  eyelid  and  a  triumphant  twist  of 
his  iron-gray  mustache — "  and  they  do  cure 
fever  and  ague  !  There's  no  doubt  about  it. 
They're  a  specific,  and  that  boy  found  it  out. 
He  has  more  'n  thirteen  hundred  signed  testi 
monials  from  sufferers,  up  at  the  Works  to-day. 
He's  a  hustler,  I  tell  you,  when  he  wants  to 

hustle,  but "  The  enthusiasm  dropped  out 

of  his  voice,  and  his  eyes  fell  to  the  floor. 

Salem  was  silent,  wondering  what  all  this 
had  to  do  with  himself. 

"  But  just  about  once  in  so  often,"  the 
patent  medicine  man  went  on  slowly,  "about 
once  in  two  months,  Freddie  has  to  take  three 
or  four  days  off,  and  lets  the  Pellets  roll  to 
Ballyhack,  till  he  gets  ready  to  go  on  again. 
I  had  to  go  down  to  Tampa  last  winter  to 
bring  him  home,  and  he  came  pretty  near 
slipping  me  in  New  York  as  it  was.  If  he'd 
keep  straight  and  settle  down,  I'd  give  him 
half  the  business  in  a  minute;  but  he  don't 
want  to  settle  yet,  he  says,  and  he'll  keep  on 
the  road,  or  nothing.  I  can't  get  along  with 
out  him — or  with  him,  and  there  we  are.  His 
mother,  she  talks  to  him,  but  she  don't  seem 
to  understand  Freddie  very  well — she  never 

7 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologue 


did ;  and  our  minister's  talked  to  him,  and 
he's  just  as  polite  as  a  boy  can  be,  and  just  as 
straight  as  a  boy  can  be,  till  the  time  comes 
round  again,  and  then  everything  goes  ker- 
flummux.  And  here's  where  you  come  in. 
I've  had  a  talk  with  the  doctor  about  Freddie  ; 
the  doctor  saw  him  after  that  Tampa  business 
last  winter,  and  again  in  May,  and  he  says 
there's  just  about  one  chance  for  him.  '  Your 
boy,'  says  he,  '  is  a  confirmed  inebriate,  or 
straight  on  the  road  to  it.  It  isn't  that  he 
wants  to  drink  all  the  time;  he  doesn't;  he's 
got  the  convulsive  form  of  acute  alcoholism. 
You  must  get  a  good,  steady  young  fellow  to 
go  to  Europe  with  him,  or  round  the  world, 
or  somewhere,  and  watch  him  night  and  day 
when  these  turns  are  coming  on.  If  he  gets  by 
one  or  two  of  them,  he  may  be  all  right.  Then 
let  him  come  back  and  settle  down  at  the 
Works  and  never  go  on  the  road  again.  It's 
the  only  way. '  Now,  I  happened  to  run  across 
Nehemiah  Bibb  that  very  afternoon,  and  he 
said  that  you  were  through  your  fourth  year, 
and  hadn't  any  particular  church  in  view — 
kind  o'  staying  on  in  Andover,  ain't  you? — 
and  he  didn't  know  but  you'd  like  the  chance 
to  go  around  the  world." 

"  I  see,"  said  Salem,  trying  to  think  fast. 


Salem  Kittredge,  Tbeologue 


The  father  watched  him  keenly.  "  You'd 
find  Freddie  a  pleasant  fellow  to  be  with,"  he 
ventured,  persuasively,  fancying  he  saw  a  re 
fusal  upon  Salem's  face.  "  And  I  ought  to 
say  this,"  he  continued,  "  I'll  make  it  worth 
your  while,  if  you  want  to  go.  I  know  the 
captain  of  a  brig  that  sails  in  August  for  Aus 
tralia  ;  expects  to  touch  almost  everywhere, 
either  coming  or  going.  How  would  this  do  : 
I  to  pay  all  expenses,  and  two  hundred  dollars 
a  month,  beginning  now  ?  " 

Kittredge  hesitated.  It  was  in  many  ways 
the  very  thing  he  would  like ;  and  the  money 
tempted  him,  and  the  opportunity  to  win  back 
a  young  man's  life.  "But  we  might  not  get 
along  together,"  he  suggested.  "lam  three 
or  four  years  older,  and  a  licensed  minister, 

and "  He  could  scarcely  give  an  exact 

phrase  to  what  he  felt  to  be  a  certain  unfitness 
in  the  proposed  relationship. 

' '  Exactly  ;  you  want  to  go  slow  and  sure. 
Just  like  your  father.  That's  all  right.  But 
see  here  :  the  Richard  H.  Gulick  don't  sail 
till  the  1 6th  of  August,  and  to-day's  only  the 
2d  of  July.  Freddie's  vacation  began  yester 
day.  We're  running  light  at  the  Works,  and 
his  next  trip  wouldn't  be  till  September  any 
way.  He  proposes  to  go  up  to  Bar  Harbor  for 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologm 


awhile ;  thinks  the  air  is  better  there  than  it  is 
down  on  the  North  Shore  where  his  mother  is. 
Now  you  go  up  on  the  Olivette  to-night  with 
him,  spend  a  few  weeks  together,  and  get  a 
little  acquainted.  What  do  you  say?  " 

' '  But  what  would  your  son  say  ?  " 

"Oh,  that's  fixed,  nice  as  you  please.  I 
talked  it  over  with  him  last  night ;  told  him 
all  about  the  way  your  father  and  I  used  to 
hook  off  from  school  together  up  in  Burridge 
— guess,  though,  he'd  heard  me  tell  that  be 
fore — and  he  says,  '  All  right,  send  Kittredge 
along.  I've  never  seen  the  man  yet  I  couldn't 
stand  if  I  had  to  !  ' 

Salem  reflected  upon  the  young  man's  cor 
dial  way  of  putting  it.  "I  don't  know,"  he 
said,  doubtfully,  "  suppose  we  found  we  couldn't 
get  on  smoothly  ?  It  must  be  unpleasant  for 
him  to  know  he  is  watched.  It  wouldn't  be 
very  agreeable  for  two  men  at  sword's  points 
to  go  around  the  world  together." 

"To  be  sure,"  interrupted  Pitman,  eagerly, 
"  and  that's  the  beauty  of  the  Bar  Harbor 
idea.  Try  it  for  awhile.  If  it  don't  work, 
we  won't  say  anything  about  the  Richard 
H.  Gulick.  But  I  kind  o'  think  it  will  work, 
and  it  does  seem  as  if  it  was  about  the  only 
thing  there  was  left  to  try.  There's  a  good 
10 


Salem  Kittredge,   Tbeologue 


stiff  Maine  law,  you  know  ;  that  might  help 
you  some." 

A  sense  of  pity  smote  Kittredge  suddenly, 
for  the  simple  -  hearted  father,  for  the  mother 
who  did  not  understand  her  only  boy,  for  the 
boy  himself,  an  inebriate  at  twenty-three. 

"  I  will  undertake  it,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  do 
my  best,  but  I'm  sure  I  don't  know " 

Pitman  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  The  Lord  bless 
you  !  Nehemiah  Bibb  said  you  would  do  it. 
I'll  telephone  Freddie  that  you'll  meet  him  at 
the  boat  to-night.  You  know  where  it  is — Lew 
is  Wharf.  Sails  at  six,  don't  she?  Look  it 
up  in  that  Globe."  And  while  Salem  picked 
up  the  newspaper,  and  found  the  Primitive  Pel 
lets  staring  him  in  the  face  again  before  he 
could  turn  to  the  steamboat  column,  Mr.  Pit 
man  stepped  to  a  table  and  wrote  a  check  for 
the  first  six  weeks'  salary.  He  would  not  listen 
to  Salem's  ineffective  protest  against  receiving 
it,  and  they  left  the  Parker  House  together. 
Pitman  held  up  his  finger  for  a  herdic,  and 
shook  the  younger  man's  hand  with  some  emo 
tion,  looking  at  his  watch  meanwhile  and  giving 
directions  to  the  driver.  He  already  had  one 
foot  in  the  herdic  when  he  turned,  and  pulled 
a  big  Pellet  catalogue  from  his  inside  pocket. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  with  a  pride  not 
ii 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologue 


quite  disguised  by  his  offhand  tone,  "perhaps 
you'd  like  to  look  over  one  of  our  new  cata 
logues.  It  tells  all  about  the  Works,  and  some 
of  those  testimonials  Freddie  got  down  South 
are  in  there.  Freddie's  picture  is  on  the  back 
page,  but  he  don't  know  it  yet.  Good-by  !  " 
The  herdic  disappeared  into  Washington  Street, 
leaving  Salem  Kittredge  standing  on  the  pave 
ment,  his  cheeks  hot  with  an  embarrassed,  un- 
formulated  pity,  and  a  colored  patent  medicine 
pamphlet  in  his  hand. 


12 


II. 


absurdity  of  the  situation  came  over 
JL  him  in  a  moment,  and  he  hurriedly 
pocketed  the  catalogue  and  began  to  grin. 
But  there  was  no  time  to  lose  in  humorous  re 
flection  upon  his  new  occupation,  if  he  was  to 
be  ready  for  the  Bar  Harbor  trip  that  afternoon, 
and  it  grew  clear  to  him  that  the  check  in  his 
possession  was  a  providential  dispensation. 
Without  it,  he  had  barely  money  enough  to  get 
back  to  Andover ;  with  it,  he  could  purchase  a 
few  things  that  seemed  absolutely  necessary,  if 
young  Pitman  were  not  to  be  made  ashamed  of 
his  travelling  companion.  Exactly  what  these 
purchases  must  be,  he  tried  to  decide  in  the 
course  of — it  would  be  hardly  accurate  to  say 
between  the  courses  of — a  forty-five  cent  dinner 
at  a  Brattle  Street  restaurant. 

It  was  plain  that  he  must  procure  some 
clothes,  for  the  black  frock  suit  he  had  worn 
into  Boston  that  morning,  the  only  really  pre 
sentable  thing  he  had,  was  shiny  with  the  Sun 
day  preaching  trips  of  two  winters  and  a  long 

13 


Salem  Kittredge,   Ideologue 


summer  in  South  Dakota.  For  the  various  exi 
gencies  of  Bar  Harbor  life,  Salem  knew  that  this 
garb  was  quite  inappropriate.  After  a  miser 
able  hour  of  indecision,  he  took  the  bit  in  his 
teeth,  and  bought  a  white  flannel  tennis  suit,  as 
something  unministerial  and  sure  to  be  useful. 
He  had  a  sort  of  feeling,  too,  sufficiently  defi 
nite  to  make  him  uncomfortable,  that  a  man 
going  to  Mount  Desert  ought  to  have  a  dress- 
suit,  but  he  was  not  sure.  If  young  Pitman 
and  he  were  to  start  on  a  voyage  around  the 
world  in  a  sailing  vessel,  a  swallow-tail  coat 
would  be  an  impertinence,  but  trie  intervening 
weeks  loomed  large  upon  his  imagination,  and 
finally,  in  his  honest  way,  he  made  a  confident 
of  the  salesman  who  had  persuaded  him  into 
taking  the  ready-made  tennis  suit.  The  fertile 
mind  of  this  young  gentleman  suggested  that  it 
might  be  better  to  rei^t  the  evening  dress  for  the 
time  required,  and  while  directing  Kittredge  to 
an  establishment  that  made  a  specialty  of  such 
transactions,  he  assured  him  that  it  would  be 
advisable  to  buy,  then  and  there,  whatever  else 
might  be  needed  to  complete  his  evening  toilet. 
The  result  was  that  the  perplexed  theologue 
gave  the  salesman  permission  to  pick  out  what 
was  necessary — a  commission  which  the  latter 
cordially  executed,  and  the  affair  ended  by  his 

14 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 

escorting  Salem  to  the  basement  and  helping 
him  to  select  a  dress-suit  case,  extraordinarily 
heavy  and  expensive,  but  absolutely  correct  in 
design. 

It  was  with  this  case  in  one  hand  and  two 
big  paper  parcels  in  the  other — he  had  tele 
graphed  his  Andover  landlady  to  forward  his 
trunk  to  Mount  Desert  by  express — that  Sa 
lem  walked  up  the  gang-plank  of  the  Olivette 
shortly  after  five  that  afternoon.  He  was  hot 
and  tired  and  nervous,  and  the  first  passenger 
on  board.  The  purser  informed  him  that  a 
Mr.  Pitman  had  telegraphed  for  two  state 
rooms,  and  in  one  of  these  Kittredge  deposited 
his  belongings.  Then,  after  puzzling  over  the 
Spanish  notices  posted  around  the  cabin — me 
morials  of  the  winter  trips  of  the  little  vessel — 
he  went  out  upon  the  big  covered  wharf  and 
sat  down  upon  a  box  of  freight,  folding  the 
tails  of  his  frock-coat  over  into  his  lap  and  fan 
ning  himself  with  his  black  Derby  hat,  while  he 
kept  an  eye  out  for  Frederic  Pitman. 

The  Olivette  had  already  taken  on  most  of 
her  freight,  but  the  wharf  reverberated  with 
the  rolling  of  hand-trucks  and  the  shouts  of  the 
deck-hands  as  the  last  consignments  were  dis 
posed  of.  Baggage-wagons  clattered  up  to  the 
open  side  of  the  building,  and  deposited  piles 


\\ 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 


of  trunks,  which  were  checked  and  put  aboard 
as  fast  as  the  owners  arrived  to  identify  them. 
Kittredge  kept  his  seat  until  he  was  hustled  out 
of  the  way  by  an  Italian  stevedore,  and  then  he 
began  to  walk  around  among  the  baggage  and 
wonder  whether  he  could  recognize  young  Pit 
man  when  he  saw  him.  The  confusion  in 
creased  momentarily,  and  amid  the  throng  of 
clamorous  children,  jauntily  dressed  young  wom 
en,  youths  in  white  flannel,  jaded  mammas, 
hurrying  papas,  and  Scandinavians  and  Celts  of 
every  condition  of  servitude,  Salem  looked  in 
vain  for  his  Confirmed  Inebriate.  The  trunks 
disappeared  gradually  within  the  hold,  and  the 
upper  deck  of  the  Olivette  was  filling  with  pas 
sengers.  Ten  minutes  before  the  time  of  sail 
ing  the  wharf  was  nearly  empty  once  more, 
and  still  Salem  paced  back  and  forth,  pausing 
to  examine  the  initials  upon  the  late-arriving 
baggage. 

Once  his  heart  beat  fast,  as  he  read  a  big  P. 
upon  a  steamer  trunk,  two  valises,  and  a  hat- 
box,  and  he  stepped  forward  to  meet  the 
owner,  a  stalwart  blond  fellow  in  a  checked 
suit  and  helmet  hat.  But  the  dissimilarity  be 
tween  this  figure  and  J.  Howard  Pitman  made 
him  hesitate,  and  when  the  stranger,  after  star 
ing  at  him  an  instant,  ordered  the  first  officer 
16 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 

of  the  Olivette  to  book  his  luggage,  it  dawned 
gratefully  upon  Kittredge  that  P.  might  also 
stand  for  Plantagenet. 

The  first  officer  gravely  beckoned  to  the 
baggage-master,  and  continued  to  converse 
soothingly  with  the  elder  of  two  ladies,  who 
had  been  hovering  anxiously  over  the  trunks 
for  several  minutes.  She  was  a  stout  little 
rosy-cheeked  personage  of  fifty-five,  and  her 
acute  eyes  were  sparkling  behind  her  gold- 
rimmed  glasses. 

< '  Such  an  irresponsible  system  !  "  she  ex 
claimed. 

The  first  officer  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Auntie,"  said  the  younger  woman,  "are 
you  quite  sure  the  trunk  was  not  put  aboard 
while  I  was  buying  the  tickets?  " 

"  Certainly,  my  child.  I  was  watching 
every  moment.  To  think  that  all  the  plans 
should  be  in  that  particular  trunk !  Would 
your  deck-hands,  sir,  dare  to  put  a  trunk  on 
board  before  it  had  been  claimed — while  I 
held  the  transfer-check  in  my  hand  ?  ' ' 

"I  should  scarcely  think  so,  madam,"  re 
plied  the  first  officer,  who  had  been  sum 
moned  from  the  deck  to  meet  this  emergency. 
"But  I  will  have  another  search  made  in  the 
hold  at  once ;  ' '  and  bowing  to  the  older  lady 

17 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologiie 


while  looking  at  the  younger  one,  he  shame 
lessly  retreated  under  fire,  leaving  Kittredge 
and  the  ladies  standing  near  together. 

"  It  may  come  yet,  Auntie.  There  are  five 
minutes  left — and  then  you  have  the  check,  in 
any  case,  you  know. ' ' 

"Yes,  but,  my  dear  child Wait  !  We 

must  telephone  the  transfer  company.  Is  there 
a  telephone  here  ?  ' ' 

This  demand  was  not  addressed  to  anyone  in 
particular,  but  Kittredge  glanced  toward  her  as 
he  heard  it,  and  she  made  a  rapid  advance  upon 
him.  "  Excuse  me,"  she  said,  "  but  possibly 
you  can  help  us.  Can  you  tell  me  if  there  is  a 
telephone  here  ?  ' ' 

Kittredge  glanced  vaguely  along  the  floor  of 
the  huge  building,  down  the  sides,  over  to  the 
Olivette,  up  to  the  rafters  ;  whence  his  gaze  fell 
to  the  sharp  bronze  feathers  of  the  younger 
woman's  bonnet,  and  her  fine  brown  hair,  and 
the  grave  blue  eyes. 

"  I — don't  see  any,"  he  ejaculated.  "I'm 
very  sorry. ' '  And  then  he  took  off  his  hat. 

"  There's  a  tellyphown  in  the  offus,  mum," 
volunteered  an  interested  cabman,  with  a  jerk 
of  his  thumb  toward  the  upper  end  of  the  wharf. 

"  Ah,  thank  you.  Then  will  you  please 
telephone  the  transfer  company  that  they  must 
18 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologue 


trace  Check  38  instantly,  and  that  we  have  only 
five  minutes  to  spare,  and  that  if  the  trunk  does 
not  reach  here  in  time  they  must  express  it  to 
me  at  the  Hotel  Occidental,  at  their  expense, 
and  that " 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  give  your  name, 
Auntie?  "  suggested  the  niece. 

"Of  course.  Sign  it  Mrs.  Atterbury, 
please. ' ' 

"  Sign  it  ?  "  inquired  Kittredge. 

"  How  very  stupid  in  me  !  You  know  what 
I  mean!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Atterbury,  and  as 
the  perplexed  theologue  started  on  an  undigni 
fied  run  for  the  office,  she  added  to  her  niece : 
"  Rachel,  I  do  believe  that  in  my  old  age  I  am 
growing  a  trifle  nervous  !  " 

As  Salem  reached  the  office  door,  the  clerk 
in  charge  was  hurrying  out  to  the  Olivette. 

' '  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  have  you  a  telephone 
here?" 

< <  Right  inside.     Help  yourself. ' ' 

Kittredge  groaned.  He  had  counted  on 
getting  the  clerk  to  do  the  talking.  It  was 
only  once  or  twice  a  year  that  he  had  occa 
sion  to  use  a  telephone,  and  then  he  rarely 
succeeded  in  making  the  thing  work.  But 
there  was  not  a  moment  to  lose.  He  laid  his 
hat  in  a  chair,  and  grasping  the  handle  of  the 

19 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologue 


instrument,  turned  it  loud  and  long.  Then  he 
put  the  receiver  to  his  ear  and  waited.  Out 
side,  there  was  the  hum  and  rattle  of  the  streets  ; 
down  the  harbor  somewhere,  a  tug-boat  was 
blowing  her  whistle;  out  on  the  wharf  there 
was  a  scraping  sound  as  if  they  were  hauling 
up  the  gang-plank.  Salem  put  the  receiver 
to  his  other  ear,  and  rang  again ;  but  still  the 
mysterious  machine  was  dumb.  It  occurred 
to  him  that  perhaps  he  was  expected  to  speak 
first. 

"  Hullo  !  "      His  voice  was  shaky. 

"  Hullo,  Central !  "  It  was  slightly  louder 
now,  and  it  seemed  to  him  stentorian. 

"Say,  Central!  Oh-h.  Cen-tr-a-1  !  !  " 
Never  had  he  closed  a  pulpit  discourse  with 
a  purer  pathos. 

Then  a  cold  sweat  broke  out  all  over  him. 
He  had  forgotten  to  press  the  button.  With  a 
trembling  hand  he  began  again,  and  was  greeted 
with  a  prompt  "  Hullo  !  " 

"Is  that  the  Central?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  I  am  trying  to  find  Mrs.  Atterbury's 
trunk.  It's  lost,  and  she  wanted  me  to  tele 
phone  to  the  transfer  company " 

' '  Hold  on  a  minute. ' ' 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  " 
20 


Salem  Kittredge,   Tbeologue 


' i  Go  ahead.   Whom  did  you  wish  to  call  up  ?  " 

"  The  transfer  company.  I'm  trying  to  find 
Mrs.  Atterbury's  trunk,  and  she  wanted  me  to 
telephone ' ' 

"  Yes,  yes.     But  what  number?  " 

' '  Number  thirty-eight.  I  think  it  was  a  sole- 
leather  trunk,  and  the  Olivette  is  just  starting 
now,  and  she  says " 

"  Wait  a  minute  !  "  There  was  a  conversa 
tion  at  the  other  end  of  the  machine,  and  a 
confusion  of  sentences  :  "  Lewis  wharf" — 
"  some  one  there  " — "  can't  make  out  what  he 
wants" — "no  such  call  as  thirty-eight  in  the 
book." 

Then  came  a  new  voice. 

"  Who  is  it  that's  talking?  " 

"  Mr.  Kittredge,  Salem  Kittredge.  I  am 
trying  to  find  Mrs.  Atterbury's  trunk;  Misses 
At-ter-bur-y.  She  wanted  me  to  telephone  to 
the  transfer  company " 

"  All  right.  Now  hold  on.  Stand  up  closer 
to  the  telephone.  What  transfer  company  ?  ' ' 

Salem 's  heart  came  up  in  his  throat.  He 
did  not  have  the  remotest  idea.  "I  think  it 
was  from  the  Old  Colony  Depot,"  he  stam 
mered  desperately.  ' '  But  it  may  have  been 
the  Albany  Depot,  or  perhaps  it  was  the  New 
England.  Can't  you  try  them  all?  "  he  went 
21 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 


on,  penitently  but  hopelessly.  "The  fact  is, 
she  didn't  tell  me,  and " 

There  was  a  quick  rustle  of  skirts  behind 
him,  and  Kittredge  turned.  In  the  narrow 
doorway  of  the  dingy  office  stood  Rachel 
Atterbury,  slender,  alert  as  a  bird  just  alight 
ing,  one  gray-gloved  hand  resting  on  the  door- 
jamb  and  the  other  supported  by  the  handle  of 
her  parasol.  She  leaned  toward  him,  a  flush  of 
color  in  her  cheeks,  her  lips  parted  with  her 
quick  breathing. 

"Auntie's  trunk  is  found!"  she  panted. 
"  It  was  in  the  hold  all  the  time!  We  were 
so  afraid  you  would  be  left.  It  was  so  very 
kind  of  you  to  take  this  trouble." 

Salem  stared  at  her  an  instant  in  abject, 
speechless  gratitude  ;  then  he  let  the  telephone 
receiver  swing  dangling  back  against  the  wall 
and  stammered,  with  admirable  sincerity, 
"  You're  welcome.  You  are  very  welcome." 

They  hurried  toward  the  Olivette  side  by 
side.  The  deck-hands  had  already  laid  hold 
of  the  ropes  of  the  gang-plank,  and  the  boat 
was  quivering  with  the  slow  turning  of  her 
screw.  Frederic  Pitman  had  gone  utterly  out 
of  Kittredge's  mind.  But  as  they  reached  the 
boat,  they  encountered  a  spectacle  which  re 
called  to  the  theologue  the  aim  of  his  excursion 

22 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 


to  Mount  Desert.  A  red-faced,  pot-bellied 
hackman  bore  down  upon  them,  staggering 
under  the  weight  of  a  huge,  commercial  trav 
eller's  trunk ;  and  in  the  rear  of  this  combina 
tion  appeared  the  Confirmed  Inebriate,  a  small 
ish  young  man  with  a  pert  nose  and  demure 
eyes,  immaculately  dressed  in  blue  serge,  russet 
shoes,  and  yachting  cap,  carrying  his  head 
thrown  forward,  his  elbows  very  slightly  out 
ward,  and  his  knees  very  daintily  bent  as  he 
walked,  and  with  a  bundle  of  silver  -  headed 
sticks  and  umbrellas  in  his  hand.  It  was  with 
this  bundle  that  he  politely  touched  the  hack- 
man's  elbow,  and  indicated  where  the  trunk 
should  be  thrown  on  board  ;  then  he  caught 
sight  of  Miss  Atterbury.  She  recognized  him, 
with  a  somewhat  formal  inclination,  and  passed 
swiftly  up  the  plank.  His  lips  murmured  her 
name  respectfully ;  his  bow  was  the  perfection 
of  good  form. 

"This  is  Mr.  Pitman?"  said  Kittredge, 
wondering  how  Mrs.  Atterbury's  niece  could 
happen  to  know  an  inebriate,  but  feeling  in 
stinctively  sure  of  his  man. 

"Yes;  Mr.  Kittredge,  I  believe?  I  am 
very  glad  to  meet  you.  After  you." 

And  in  that  order  they  mounted  to  the  deck 
of  the  Olivette. 

23 


III. 


THE  experience  of  Salem  Kittredge  as  a 
student  of  theology,  and  even  as  a  fron 
tier  preacher  for  a  space  of  some  four  months, 
had  scarcely  accustomed  him  to  such  prompt 
action  and  swift  transitions  as  had  marked  that 
afternoon.  It  was  difficult  for  him  to  keep 
more  than  one  thing  in  his  head  at  a  time,  and 
from  the  moment  the  Atterbury  ladies  had  ap 
pealed  to  him  in  their  anxiety  until  he  spied 
his  Inebriate,  he  had  quite  forgotten  the  real 
reason  of  his  journey  to  Bar  Harbor.  But  his 
memory  was  sharply  jogged  before  he  had  been 
a  minute  upon  the  deck  of  the  steamer.  Young 
Mr.  Pitman  excused  himself  in  order  to  look 
up  his  state-room,  leaving  Kittredge  leaning 
over  the  rail  of  the  boat  watching  her  work  her 
way  out  of  the  slip.  The  quartermaster  was 
close  beside  him,  lowering  a  rope  buffer  be 
tween  the  steamer  and  the  black  piles  of  the 
wharf,  and  conversing  respectfully  with  the 
second  officer. 

24      '  « 


Salem  Kittredge,  Tbeologue 


' l  D'  ye  remember  that  little  feller  who  just 
come  aboard  ?  ' ' 

"No.  I  don't  know  as  I  do/'  replied  the 
second  officer. 

"Why,  he  was  that  feller  that  wanted  to 
charter  the  Olivette  to  carry  a  cargo  of  pills 
from  Tampa  to  Havana,  last  winter." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  Well,  he  was  lively  for  a  little 
one,  wa'n't  he  ?  " 

"I  guess  he  was !  "  And,  bending  still 
farther  over,  he  swung  the  buffer  just  in  time 
to  catch  the  whole  weight  of  the  straining  boat, 
and  as  it  creaked  and  flattened  with  the  pres 
sure,  he  added,  judicially :  "There  ain't  any 
bichloride  of  gold  in  his  blood  !  " 

Salem  turned  away,  with  a  sudden  sinking 
at  his  heart.  He  was  there  to  watch  over  a 
drunkard ;  such  was  the  service  to  which  he 
owed  his  salary ;  he  had  drawn  that  salary  in 
advance,  and  he  must  earn  it  somehow.  Rest 
lessly  he  made  his  way  to  the  upper  deck,  and 
there  ran  across  Mrs.  Atterbury,  who  had 
thriftily  taken  possession  of  a  chair  and  had 
scattered  her  wraps  over  two  or  three  others. 
She  scrutinized  him  through  the  gold-rimmed 
eye-glasses  an  instant,  and  then  stopped  him  as 
he  was  passing  her. 

' '  You  must  let  me  thank  you  for  your  kind- 

25 


Salem  Kit tr edge,  Theologue 


ness,"  she  said,  in  a  clear,  rapid  voice.  "  It 
was  very  obliging  of  you  to  telephone  for  me. 
I  have  no  doubt  it  did  some  good,  even  if  those 
stupid  porters  had  put  the  trunk  aboard  already. 
You  see  the  company  ought  to  be  reprimanded 
constantly  for  its  carelessness,  on  general  prin 
ciples?  I  am  glad  they  had  a  man  to  talk  to 
them.  But  we  feared  the  boat  might  start 
without  you  ;  we  were  very  grateful." 

"Oh,  I — I  really  did  very  little,"  said  Kit- 
tredge,  blushing. 

"That  is  for  us  to  decide,"  graciously  re 
plied  Mrs.  Atterbury,  "  and  no  one  knows  how 
much  good  it  may  have  done  the  transfer  com 
pany." 

The  theologue  had  the  appearance  of  defer 
entially  waiving  this  question,  but  he  could  not 
think  of  anything  to  say,  and  the  pause  in  the 
conversation  indicated  that  his  brief  acquain 
tance  with  Mrs.  Atterbury  had  already  reached 
its  limit.  As  he  hesitated,  on  the  point  of 
leaving  her,  the  Inebriate  brushed  past  his  el 
bow,  and  was  greeted  by  the  lady  with  a  smile 
of  recognition  and  an  outstretched  hand. 

"Why,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Pitman!  I 
remember  meeting  you  at  Magnolia.  Is  your 
mother  on  board  ?  ' ' 

"Mother  is  not  here,"  responded  Mr.  Pit- 

26 


Salem  Kittredge,   Tbeologue 


man,  with  a  slightly  husky  voice,  into  which 
he  succeeded  in  pouring  a  most  unctuous  re 
gret,  and  with  a  look  of  bland  resignation  in 
his  brown  eyes.  "  Mother  has  felt  obliged  to 
remain  in  Magnolia  this  summer.  It  would 
have  given  her  great  pleasure  to  meet  you 
again.  I  see  you  know  Mr.  Kittredge,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Salem. 

"Yes,  indeed!  Mr.  Kittredge  has  been  of 
the  greatest  service  to  us ;  he  must  have  tele 
phoned  all  over  the  city  in  search  of  a  trunk 
that  contained  the  plans  for  our  cottage.  We 
couldn't  have  lost  it,  you  know.  Tell  me,  Mr. 
Pitman,  is  not  a  transfer  company  liable  under 
the  circumstances  to  the  full  extent  of  the 
law?" 

The  Inebriate  nodded  gravely. 

"Won't  you  take  these  chairs  ?"  she  went 
on.  "It  will  be  impossible  to  find  one  in  a 
few  minutes,  the  boat  is  so  crowded;"  and 
with  hospitable  zeal  she  piled  her  travelling- 
rugs  upon  the  deck  and  insisted  that  the  young 
men  should  sit  down.  The  fleet  Olivette  had 
already  left  the  docks  far  behind  her  and  was 
headed  down  the  channel.  Young  Pitman  and 
Mrs.  Atterbury  were  still  deep  in  the  discussion 
of  the  trunk  question  —  broken  by  occasional 
comments  upon  the  speed  of  the  steamer  or  the 
27 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologue 


familiar  beauty  of  the  "harbor  —  when  Salem 
caught  sight  of  Rachel  Atterbury  picking  her 
way  toward  them  through  the  crowded  chairs. 
She  had  exchanged  the  bronze-feathered  bonnet 
for  a  blue  Tarn  O'Shanter,  and  the  collar  of  her 
tight-fitting  jacket  was  turned  up  around  her 
throat,  making  her  figure  seem  even  slenderer 
than  before.  Just  as  she  reached  the  group, 
the  wash  from  a  passing  schooner  struck  the 
Olivette's  quarter ;  and  the  girl,  with  a  little 
gasp,  threw  up  her  hands  to  balance  herself, 
and  was  poised  for  a  single  instant  in  the  very 
attitude  in  which  she  had  appeared  to  Salem 
at  the  dingy  office  door  upon  the  wharf.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet,  followed  by  the  Inebriate. 

"  My  niece,  Miss  Atterbury — Mr.  Pitman. 
Oh,  of  course  !  You  have  met  at  Magnolia ; 
I  should  have  remembered  it.  And  Mr.  Kit 
tredge." 

Again  Salem  noticed  that  her  bow  to  Fred 
eric  Pitman,  though  perfectly  pleasant,  was  for 
mal,  far  more  so  than  her  recognition  of  him 
self;  and  of  the  chairs  which  the  two  gentle 
men  offered  her,  she  accepted  Kittredge' s.  A 
keen  sense  of  pleasure  thrilled  him.  He  talked 
eagerly,  gayly,  cutting  short  her  reiteration  of 
gratitude  about  that  wretched  telephone ;  and 
young  Pitman,  glancing  shrewdly  at  them  in 
28 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 


the  pauses  of  his  own  conversation  with  the 
aunt,  decided  that  his  new  companion  was 
more  of  a  ladies'  man  than  he  looked. 

When  the  steamer  had  made  the  Light,  and 
was  headed  away  for  the  darkening  northeast, 
the  cooler  wind  and  increasing  motion  drove 
most  of  the  passengers  from  the  upper  deck. 
But  in  the  west  there  was  a  gorgeous  sunset, 
and  off  the  port  quarter  the  flash  of  first  one 
and  then  another  distant  light,  and  the  Atter- 
bury  ladies,  wrapped  in  their  rugs,  sat  watch 
ing  it  all  until  the  dusk  fell  close  around  the 
sharp  black  bow  cf  the  Olivette,  and  there  was 
a  scent  in  the  air  like  that  of  a  coming  fog. 
Then  they  went  down  to  supper,  leaving  the  two 
young  men,  for  the  first  time,  alone  together. 

Salem  felt  that  the  moment  had  come  for 
them  to  reach  an  understanding  of  the  peculiar 
relation  into  which  they  were  about  to  enter  ; 
and  Freddie  Pitman  seemed  to  realize  his  com 
panion's  thought,  for  he  turned  up  the  collar 
of  his  overcoat,  stretched  his  feet  irreverently 
upon  the  chair  which  Miss  Atterbury  had  aban 
doned,  and  sat  eying  Kittredge  as  if  waiting  for 
him  to  begin.  But  it  was  exceedingly  difficult 
for  the  theologue  to  invent  an  introduction  to 
his  discourse,  and  he  had  a  decidedly  vague 
idea  of  what  the  discourse  itself  ought  to  be. 
29 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologue 


"  Well,"  he  said,  "  here  we  are." 

"Yes,"  assented  Pitman,  politely,  "  here  we 
are."  The  fact,  indeed,  was  indubitable.  Sa 
lem  was  shaking  with  the  cold,  and  dizzy  with 
the  rise  and  fall  of  the  steamer's  bow. 

"I  suppose,"  he  ventured,  "we  ought  to 
have  something  of  a  talk." 

"  Yes?  "  was  the  response.  "  What  do  you 
say  to  a  smoke  ?  ' '  Freddie  Pitman  unbuttoned 
his  coat  and  held  out  a  plethoric  cigar-case. 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  said  Salem,  hurriedly, 
his  teeth  chattering  as  he  spoke,  and  the  bare 
idea  of  smoking  or  seeing  anyone  else  smoke 
seemed  suddenly  to  augment  by  ten  or  fifteen 
degrees  that  upward  and  downward  pitch  of 
the  bow. 

"  Look  here,  aren't  you  cold  ?  Hadn't  you 
better  get  your  overcoat  ?  ' ' 

"  I — I  left  it  in  Andover.  I  am  a  little  cold. 
Perhaps  I  ought  to  eat  some  supper,"  he  added, 
weakly,  as  he  caught  the  first  whiff  of  Pitman's 
cigar. 

"  Of  course.  That  will  make  you  feel  bet 
ter — warmer,  I  mean  ' '  —he  corrected  himself 
instantly — "  and  I  will  wait  here  for  you  if  you 
like.  I  had  a  five  o'clock  dinner,  and  nearly 
lost  the  boat  by  it,  so  I  think  I  won't  go 
down." 

30 


Salem  Kit  tr edge,  Theologue 


Salem  rose  unsteadily  and  made  his  way  aft, 
while  the  wind  lifted  his  shiny  coat-tails  and 
forced  him  to  keep  tight  hold  of  his  stiff  hat. 
Down  the  companion-way  he  stumbled,  and 
into  the  dining-saloon,  but  a  single  look  at  the 
tables  convinced  him  that  supper  was  not  what 
he  needed.  Slowly,  dizzily,  he  dragged  him 
self  to  the  fresh  air  of  the  upper  deck  once  more, 
and  stood  there  a  moment  watching  the  red 
tip  of  Pitman's  cigar,  as  the  young  fellow  paced 
nonchalantly  back  and  forth  upon  the  deserted 
deck ;  but  just  then  the  tricky  Olivette  began 
to  roll  a  little,  Freddie  Pitman's  cigar-tip  seemed 
to  circle  up — up — up,  and  to  whirl  down — • 
down — down,  and  Salem  Kittredge  suddenly 
remembered  that  he  had  a  state-room. 

Two  hours  later  there  was  a  gentle  knock 
at  that  state-room  door,  and  Pitman  entered 
quietly.  The  theologue  was  stretched  face 
downward  in  his  berth,  his  coat  off,  shivering, 
but  too  wretched  to  stir. 

"  Hullo  !  "  said  Freddie,  "  I've  been  won 
dering  where  you  were.  Couldn't  imagine  what 
had  become  of  you.  But  it's  sensible  to  turn 
in  early;  this  looks  like  a  bad  night,  and  I'm 
going  to  follow  suit.  Allow  me,  Mr.  Kittredge, 
it  will  make  you  more  comfortable."  As  he 
spoke,  he  covered  Salem  dexterously  with  the 


Salem  Kit tr edge,  Theologue 


blankets  from  both  berths.  "  Nonsense,  let 
me  pull  your  shoes  off — there  !  And  now,  my 
dear  fellow,  your  teeth  are  chattering  so  that  I 
can't  go  to  sleep  in  the  next  state-room.  You 
must  let  me  prescribe  ;  wait  a  second — here, 
swallow  this  ;  no,  I'll  hold  it;  don't  try  to  sit 
up  ;  just  open  your  mouth  and  shut  your  eyes — 
so-o — there  !  ' ' 

But  when  Salem  had  stopped  choking,  and 
the  fiery  liquid  had  begun  to  diffuse  a  delicious 
warmth  throughout  his  vitals,  he  opened  his 
eyes  sufficiently  to  behold  a  friendly  and  ex 
traordinarily  infectious  smile  upon  the  features 
of  the  Inebriate,  who  was  carefully  screwing 
down  the  top  of  a  brandy -flask. 


IV. 


AT  five  the  next  morning  the  Olivette 
changed  her  course  and  slackened  speed, 
cautiously  feeling  her  way  in  the  fog  toward  a 
certain  bell-buoy.  The  altered  rhythm  of  her 
engines  woke  Kittredge  from  a  sleep  which  even 
the  Olivette's  fog- whistle,  blowing  for  the  past 
two  hours,  had  not  disturbed.  He  raised  him 
self  upon  one  elbow  and  stared  sleepily  around 
the  state-room.  There  were  his  new  dress-suit 
case  and  the  paper  parcels,  just  as  he  had  left 
them ;  but  his  long  black  coat,  which  he  indis 
tinctly  remembered  dropping  upon  the  floor,  was 
now  suspended  neatly  from  a  hook,  and  his  shoes 
were  placed  carefully  beneath  it.  His  shoes  ? 
He  recalled  that  when  he  went  to  bed  he  had 
decided,  all  at  once,  not  to  take  off  his  shoes. 
Gracious  !  There  flashed  over  him  the  quiet 
kindness  of  Pitman  —  and  the  blankets  —  and 
that  scorching  spirituous  draught.  He  flung 
himself  out  of  the  berth  and  looked  in  the 
mirror.  His  eyes  were  not  bloodshot,  nor  were 

33 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologue 


his  features  haggard  ;  his  hair  was  mussed,  cer 
tainly,  but  his  head  was  clear  as  a  bell ;  he 
glanced  out  of  the  port-hole  at  the  glassy  water 
and  the  luminous  fog  through  which  the  boat 
seemed  scarcely  more  than  drifting ;  then  he 
counted  his  pulse,  and  decided  he  had  never 
felt  better  in  his  life. 

In  half  an  hour  he  had  bathed,  arrayed  him 
self,  after  some  hesitation,  in  his  new  white  suit, 
and  was  knocking  at  Pitman's  state-room.  As 
there  was  no  answer,  and  the  door  was  slightly 
ajar,  Kittredge  thrust  his  head  in,  and  beheld 
the  Inebriate  slumbering  peacefully  in  the  low 
er  berth.  For  a  moment  Salem  watched  him. 
It  was  a  very  young  face,  and  scarcely  seemed  a 
bad  one  ;  the  collar  of  the  silk  night-robe  was 
drawn  close  up  to  the  chin,  whose  lines  were 
delicate  and  almost  firm  ;  the  mouth  was  win 
ning,  the  saucy  nose  lent  a  certain  gayness  to 
the  countenance,  the  brown  hair  was  tumbled  in 
boyish  fashion  ;  and  while  Kittredge  was  still 
looking,  the  demure  eyes  opened  wide  and 
smiled  a  morning  greeting. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  said  Salem ;  "  I  thought 
I'd  see  if  you  were  awake." 

"That's  all  right.  Come  in.  What  time 
is  it?" 

"It's  moving   along    toward   six,"    replied 

34 


Salem  Kittredge,  Tbeologue 

Kittredge,  "  and  I  didn't  know  but  we  should 
be  getting  in  soon." 

"Exactly,"  yawned  Pitman,  directing  his 
brown  eyes  inquiringly  at  the  theologue's  flan 
nel  suit.  But  he  made  no  comment,  and  an 
nounced  an  intention  of  arising  in  a  very  few 
minutes  and  annihilating  the  Olivette's  fog- 
whistle.  In  this  work  of  destruction  Salem  was 
cordially  invited  to  join,  and  he  assented  to  the 
extent  of  agreeing  to  wait  for  Pitman  upon  the 
upper  deck,  that  they  might  begin  operations 
together.  Thither,  accordingly,  Salem  betook 
himself,  fairly  satisfied  with  the  pleasantry  he 
had  exchanged  with  his  protege,  and  feeling 
himself  to  be  a  quite  different  person  from  the 
man  who  had  retreated  down  those  slippery  sa 
loon  stairs  the  night  before. 

The  morning  was  delicious.  The  Olivette 
was  still  enwrapped  with  fog,  so  thick  that  with 
a  double  lookout  at  the  bow,  she  did  not  dare 
to  steam  ahead  at  full  speed  ;  yet  in  her  wake 
it  was  all  translucent  in  the  sun,  gleaming  with 
a  hundred  tints  of  mother-of-pearl  and  clouded 
opal,  and  around  her  keel  it  slowly  rose  like 
drifting  smoke  from  the  dull-green  water.  Kit 
tredge  threw  back  his  shoulders,  and  took  a 
deep  breath  of  the  salt  air.  Then  he  observed 
Miss  Atterbury,  who  was  leaning  over  the  rail 

35 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 


to  watch  a  floating  jelly-fish,  and  in  the  buoy 
ancy  of  that  moment  he  stepped  promptly  to 
her  side.  She  started  as  she  caught  sight  of  his 
big  hand  upon  the  rail,  so  close  to  her  own, 
and  for  an  instant  she  failed  to  recognize  him 
in  his  utterly  changed  attire. 

"  Good  -morning  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Did 
you  sleep  well  ?  ' ' 

"Oh,  good-morning,  Mr. — Mr.  Kittredge," 
she  said,  straightening  up.  "I  beg  your  par 
don?  " 

* '  Did  the  fog-whistle  keep  you  awake  ?  ' ' 
He  beamed  at  her  with  benevolent  gray  eyes. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  for  the  longest  time.  Was  it 
not  dreadful  ?  ' ' 

"  Well,  I  didn't  hear  it  myself,"  he  admit 
ted.  "  I  must  have  been  very  sound  asleep. 
But  Mr.  Pitman  says  that  it  was  the — that  it 
was  very  annoying.  He  proposes  to  smash  it 
when  he  comes  up,  and  wants  me  to  help  him." 

"Ah?  Mr.  Pitman  must  be  very  vindic 
tive,"  she  said,  smilingly.  "  Don't  you  think 
one  ought  to  be  more  forgiving  on  a  perfect 
morning  like  this  ?  ' ' 

"I?  Oh,  I  could  forgive  anything  or  any 
body  to-day,  I  am  sure.  And  perhaps  Mr. 
Pitman  didn't  mean  it.  I  don't  know  him 
very  well." 

36 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 


"No?" 

"No,  not  really.  In  fact,  I  met  him  only 
yesterday.  You  see  I  have  been  a  theological 
student,  and " 

He  hesitated,  and  she  helped  him  out  a  little, 
in  feminine  fashion. 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  told  me  you  had  been 
studying  at  Andover.  What  a  lovely  old  place 
Andover  is,  isn't  it?  " 

"  You  have  been  there,  then?  " 

"I  have  only  driven  through,  with  Auntie 
and  a  coaching  party.  But  I  interrupted  you, 
did  I  not?" 

"  No,"  he  said,  bluntly,  his  feeling  of  loyalty 
to  the  young  fellow  keeping  him  from  the  ex 
planation  he  had  started  to  give,  "  Pitman  and  I 
are  just  travelling  together." 

She  nodded  silently,  looking  him  in  the  eyes. 
Kittredge  remembered  her  coolness  toward  Pit 
man  the  night  before,  and  was  sure  she  had 
guessed  the  relationship  between  himself  and 
the  Inebriate.  But  she  changed  the  subject. 
"  I  was  just  watching  the  funniest  jelly-fish  !  " 
she  remarked,  looking  down  at  the  water  again. 
"  I  wonder  if  you  can  tell  me  its  name;  there 
were  so  many  of  them  here  a  few  moments  ago. 
Do  you  study  jelly-fishes  at  the  theological  sem 
inary,  Mr.  Kittredge?  " 

37 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologite 


"No,"  he  replied;  "we  have  them  there, 
but  we  don't  study  them,  except  incidentally." 

She  glanced  at  him  with  a  delightful  smile  of 
comprehension.  "  I  have  met  some  of  the  men 
in  our  own  theological  school  at  Cambridge, 
and — yes,  they  are  queer.  But  many  of  them 
are  very  nice — really,  not  jelly-fishy  at  all." 

"  I  don't  suppose  we  can  help  it — to  a  cer 
tain  extent,"  said  Kittredge,  fearing  that  he 
had  slandered  his  brethren,  and  at  the  same 
time  offering  a  guilty  apology  for  himself; 
"  it's  the  nature  of  the  life  we  lead — the  defect 
of  our  qualities,  if  you  like." 

"  No,"  she  insisted,  "  I  don't  admit  it.  The 
Church — the  ministry,  I  mean — is  a  noble  pro 
fession  ;  it  is  quite  the  noblest.  And  some  of 
the  men  are  charming.  We  have  had  several 
of  them  in  some  informal  dances  this  last  win 
ter  ;  they  were  so  clever,  too." 

' '  Indeed  ?  I  am  afraid  we  are  not  all  clever 
at  Andover.  But  we  have  some  sterling  men." 

She  interrupted  him,  pointing  eagerly  down 
to  the  water.  "  Quick  !  "  she  cried,  "  isn't  it 
a  nautilus?  A  real  Chambered  Nautilus?  " 

Kittredge  looked  critically  at  the  tiny  float 
ing  object.  "I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Is  he 
sailing  away  from  his  low-vaulted  past  or  does 
he  take  it  with  him  ?  " 

38 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologiie 


"Oh,  he  leaves  it  behind  !  "  she  laughed. 
"Don't  you  remember?  l  Leave  thy  low- 
vaulted  past ' — it  comes  just  after  *  Build  thou 
more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul.'  That  last 
is  the  line  I've  been  teasing  Auntie  with  all  the 
spring.  I  maintain  that  her  house  at  Newton, 
built  by  old  Colonel  Atterbury  himself,  is  ever 
so  much  nicer  than  this  new  cottage  at  Bar 
Harbor.  Did  she  offer  to  show  you  the 
plans?  " 

"No,"  said  Kittredge,  "but  I  believe  she 
discussed  them  with  Mr.  Pitman." 

"  Those  plans  are  a  perfect  mania  with  Aun 
tie  ;  you  should  hear  her  talk  them  over  with 
the  coachman  !  If  the  trunk  had  veritably 
been  lost,  Mr.  Kittredge,  I'm  sure  I  can't 
imagine  what  we  should  have  done.  The 
architect  has  just  sailed  for  Europe.  Auntie 
will  never  forget  your  kindness,  but  I  am  cer 
tain  that  you  cannot  escape  looking  over  the 
plans." 

"  But  I  shall  enjoy  it !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I 
think  house-building  is  very  delightful.  And 
until  it  is  finished?  " 

"  We  shall  remain  at  the  Occidental." 

The  theologue  flushed  with  pleasure.  "  We 
are  going  there  too  !  "  he  cried.  "  Perhaps  you 
will  let  me — let  us — see  something  of  you?" 

39 


Salem  Kit  tr edge,   Theologue 


The  thought  of  the  Inebriate  made  him  hes 
itate  ;  he  wondered  whether  he  should  find 
himself  under  a  social  ban  because  of  his  com 
panion,  and  he  had  an  uncomfortable  minute  or 
two  while  he  pretended  to  watch  the  nautilus 
drift  away  into  the  lifting  fog. 

"  I  do  not  really  know  Mr.  Pitman,"  she 
began,  after  a  little,  as  if  she  were  thinking  of 
the  very  same  thing  as  Kittredge.  t '  I  heard 
some  talk  about  him  at  Magnolia  last  summer. 
His  father  is  the  patent-medicine  man,  is  he 
not?" 

Salem  nodded  with  a  queer  expression  in  his 
face.  "  '  Si  monumentum  quseris,'  "  said  he, 
"just  look  at  that !  " 

The  fog  had  been  swept  apart  by  a  sudden 
breeze,  and  all  around  there  were  tiny  islands, 
covered  with  thick  clumps  of  spruce,  where  blue 
jays  and  crows  were  calling  to  each  other.  On 
a  huge  bowlder  just  off  the  bow  of  the  Olivette, 
still  glistening  from  the  falling  tide,  was  the 
following  legend,  in  white  letters  upon  an  azure 
field:  Use  Pitman' s  Primitive  Pellets. 

"What  horrid  vandalism!"  she  cried,  in 
dignantly.  "  Should  you  not  think  that " 

Salem  heard  a  step  behind  them,  and  turn 
ing,  hurriedly  touched  her  arm.  She  smoth 
ered  an  exclamation  and  faced  around,  a 
40 


Salem  Kittredge,  Tbeologue 


charming  color  in  her  cheeks.  The  Inebriate 
advanced  unconsciously,  his  mouth  quirked  into 
the  most  agreeable  of  smiles.  Kittredge  tried 
to  throw  his  broad  shoulders' between  Pitman 
and  that  staring  sign,  but  it  was  Miss  Atterbury 
who  saved  the  day. 

"  Mr.  Pitman,"  she  said,  "  we've  been  talk 
ing  of  your  threatened  assault  upon  the  steam- 
whistle,  and  I  don't  even  know  where  the  thing 
is.  Won't  you  please  show  me  ?  " 

The  flattered  Inebriate  extended  his  elbow 
with  a  bow.  She  took  his  arm  instantly,  and 
off  they  marched,  with  their  backs  turned  up 
on  the  bowlder  and  Mr.  Kittredge,  who  stood 
there  somewhat  vacantly  by  the  rail.  Miss  At 
terbury  and  her  companion  were  in  perfect  step, 
and  she  kept  turning  cosily  toward  him  as  they 
promenaded,  but  Salem  could  not  help  think 
ing  that  she  was  quite  too  tall  for  his  protege. 
Possibly  Mrs.  Atterbury,  who  joined  Kittredge 
at  the  instant  when  his  reflections  upon  this 
point  were  in  danger  of  growing  a  trifle  sombre, 
may  have  shared  his  feeling  that  there  was  a  cer 
tain  incongruity  in  that  sudden  friendliness,  for 
she  lifted  her  eye-glasses  and  regarded  her  niece 
steadily,  while  Kittredge  murmured  something 
about  getting  Pitman  away  from  a  Pellet  adver 
tisement  that  might  have  been  awkward  for  him. 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologue 


' '  For  him  ?  ' '  laughed  the  widow.  " '  Scarce 
ly  ;  I  fancy  he  is  not  easily  embarrassed  ;  but 
for  my  niece  and  yourself,  very  possibly.  And 
you  were  really  just  looking  at  it  when  he  came 
up  !  "  She  laughed  again ;  a  light,  resonant 
laugh  for  a  woman  of  fifty-five.  ' '  But  my  niece 
can  make  up  her  mind  very  quickly  on  occa 
sion,  Mr.  Kittredge.  She  can  extricate  herself, 
when  necessary,  as  well  as  most  people. ' ' 

"I  should  judge  so,"  said  the  theologue,  with 
as  much  admiration  as  he  dared  express.  "  She 
tells  me  you  are  going  to  build  here. ' ' 

' '  Yes,  the  revised  plans  were  in  that  trunk 
you  so  kindly  traced  for  us  yesterday.  You 
must  let  me  show  them  to  you  some  day." 

"Certainly,"  assented  Kittredge  promptly. 
"  I  shall  be  most  pleased." 

"  Very  good  ;  perhaps  you  will  be  the  one  to 
assure  me  whether  my  architect  has  made  a 
triumph  of  the  stairs.  No  one  seems  sufficiently 
positive  about  it.  We  shall  be  at  the  Occi 
dental,"  she  added. 

"I  am  to  be  there  too  !  "  Salem  exclaimed  ; 
"  that  is — Mr.  Pitman  and  myself." 

"Oh  !  "  said  Mrs.  Atterbury,  slowly. 

And  just  then  the  Olivette  leaped  forward 
under  full  pressure  of  her  steam,  glided  past  the 
vessels  of  the  White  Squadron  lying  lazily  at 
42 


Salem  Kit  tr edge,   Theologue 


anchor  in  the  channel,  and  in  five  minutes  was 
made  fast  to  the  little  wooden  wharf  at  Bar 
Harbor.  Salem  took  one  comprehensive  glance 
at  the  flotilla  of  Indian  canoes  and  steam 
yachts,  the  crowd  of  truckmen  and  hotel-runners 
on  the  wharf,  the  Club  House  and  the  big 
hotels  looming  through  the  mist  ;  then  he 
started  for  his  state-room  in  search  of  the  two 
brown  paper  parcels  and  his  dress-suit  case. 

Upon  the  saloon  stairs  he  met  Miss  Atterbury. 
She  was  hastening  up  to  the  deck,  buttoning 
her  gloves  as  she  went,  but  she  stopped  Salem 
as  they  were  passing  each  other. 

"Could  he  have  heard?"  she  whispered, 
her  eyes  looking  straight  into  his.  "  I  was 
never  so  frightened  in  my  life.  Do  you  think 
he  heard?" 

"I  hardly  think  so.  You  were  very  quick 
witted;  and,  if  you  will  allow  me,"  he  added, 
bluntly,  "  you  made  him  ample  amends,  even 
if  he  did  hear."  He  was  jealous  of  the  way 
she  had  taken  the  Inebriate's  arm. 

Miss  Atterbury  fastened  her  last  glove-button 
deliberately ;  then  she  raised  her  eyebrows  ever 
so  slightly,  and  made  him  a  mock  courtesy. 
"Yes?"  she  said,  and  the  crowd  upon  the 
stairs  swept  them  apart. 


43 


V. 


THE  Saturday-night  hops  at  the  Occidental 
were  one  of  the  leading  features  of  that 
admirably  conducted  hotel.  They  were  not 
so  exclusive  as  the  affairs  at  the  Pelican,  nor 
were  they  by  any  means  so  democratic  as  the 
dances  at  Pibroch's  ;  a  delightful  informality 
prevailed,  and  yet  a  great  many  people  from  the 
Cuttyhunk  and  the  Pelican  and  the  cottages 
were  sure  to  be  there.  The  tiny  orchestra 
played  in  excellent  time,  and  the  ball-room 
floor  was  reputed  to  be  the  best  in  Bar  Harbor. 
Long  French  windows  opened  directly  from 
the  ball-room  upon  the  immense  veranda,  where 
hundreds  of  people  could  promenade  at  once, 
or  sit  in  cosey  groups  before  the  windows  to 
watch  the  dancing.  The  gentlemen  who  ran 
down  to  Mount  Desert  to  spend  Sunday  with 
their  families  usually  preferred  to  lean  against 
the  piazza  railing  and  enjoy  a  tranquil  cigar 
rather  than  to  make  themselves  useful  to  their 
wives  and  daughters  upon  the  floor  ;  and  yet, 
after  all  deductions,  there  was  always  a  greater 

44 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologne 


number  of  available  men  at  the  Occidental  than 
anywhere  else  on  the  island. 

Salem  Kittredge  was  hardly  an  available  man, 
inasmuch  as  he  had  never  danced  in  his  life ; 
but  nevertheless,  upon  the  first  Saturday  night 
after  his  arrival  he  appeared  extremely  early  at 
the  ball-room,  in  evening  dress.  Why  he  was 
there  he  scarcely  knew.  He  had  had  several 
wretched  days.  On  reaching  the  hotel  a  tele 
gram  from  J.  Howard  Pitman  had  been  handed 
him  :  "  Have  just  seen  the  doctor.  Says  this  is 
the  week  to  watch  him.  Look  out.  God  bless 
you."  Was  the  crucial  test  coming,  before 
they  were  even  acquainted  ?  Salem  would 
have  flung  up  his  commission  in  dismay,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  fact  that  he  had  already  spent 
part  of  the  salary,  and  for  the  "  God  bless  you  " 
on  the  end  of  the  despatch.  He  tried  to  have 
a  frank  talk  with  his  protege,  but  although 
Freddie  Pitman  accepted  the  situation  with  the 
utmost  amiability,  he  absolutely  refused  to  dis 
cuss  it. 

"  WV11  stick  together,  Kittle,"  he  declared 
— he  had  dubbed  his  companion  Kittie  in  the 
course  of  the  first  forenoon — "  and  you  can 
keep  your  eye  on  me  as  much  as  you  please. 
That's  what  J.  Howard  is  paying  the  bills  for, 
and  much  good  may  it  do  us  all.  But  if  I  have 
45 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 


any  little  eccentricities  of  my  own,   they  are 
my  own.     Do  you  see  ?  " 

Salem  saw  with  great  distinctness,  and  the 
subject  was  dropped.  But  all  day  long,  for 
four  days,  the  young  men  kept  together.  They 
lounged  upon  the  broad  veranda,  or  played 
feebly  at  tennis.  They  drove  to  Spouting 
Horn,  and  paddled  a  canoe  over  to  Porcupine 
Island.  Hour  after  hour  did  they  walk  around 
a  billiard-table  in  a  dingy  second-floor  room 
on  the  main  street  of  the  village,  while  the 
Inebriate  gave  Kittredge  forty  points  in  a  fifty- 
point  game  and  invariably  beat  him.  Side  by 
side  did  they  do  ravage  upon  the  well-known 
cuisine  of  the  Occidental,  and  vainly  tried  to 
bribe  the  head- waiter  to  give  them  one  of  the 
cool  little  tables  by  the  window,  where  the  At- 
terburys  were  always  seated  ;  and  nothing  oc 
curred  to  mar  the  polished  surface  of  young 
Pitman's  good  nature,  or  to  relieve  the  wretch 
ed  anxiety  that  preyed  upon  Kittredge's  mind. 
He  had  so  little  to  go  by ;  he  wished  he  had 
asked  the  Pellet  man  to  send  the  doctor's  de 
tailed  statement  of  the  phenomena  of  the  "  con 
vulsive  form  of  acute  alcoholism , "  or  whatever 
the  thing  was  called,  which  he  might  expect  at 
at  any  moment.  He  made  sure,  by  a  shame 
faced  examination  of  Pitman's  belongings,  that 
46 


Salem  Kittredge,  Tbeologue 


there  were  no  intoxicants  there.  Even  the 
travelling  flask  was  empty,  and  that,  as  Salem 
ruefully  reflected,  had  very  possibly  been  emp 
tied  by  himself. 

He  remembered  what  J.  Howard  Pitman  had 
remarked  about  the  Maine  law,  and  one  day, 
with  some  embarrassment,  he  asked  the  livery 
agent  who  always  hung  about  the  door  of  the 
Occidental  whether  there  was  any  place  at  Bar 
Harbor  where  liquor  was  sold.  The  agent 
looked  sharply  at  him  from  under  the  visor  of 
his  cap. 

"No,"  he  said,  "there  ain't.  And  yet," 
he  added,  in  a  lower  voice  and  with  something 
of  a  twinkle,  "  if  all  you  want  is  a  drink,  I  can 
set  right  here  on  this  stoop,  'n  point  you  out 
seventeen  places,  not  counting  drug-stores  and 
hotels,  where  you  can  git  it.  But  what's  the 
matter  with  right  here  at  the  Occidental  ?  ' ' 

Salem  shrugged  his  shoulders,  with  as  much 
duplicity  as  he  could  muster,  and  laughed  the 
question  off.  But  his  heart  sank. 

It  was  only  at  night,  after  young  Pitman 
had  turned  out  the  gas  in  the  inner  of  the  ad 
joining  rooms  that  constituted  No.  37,  and 
called  "  Good-night,  Kittie  !  "  that  Salem  had 
any  peace  of  mind.  Then  he  used  to  stretch 
himself  comfortably  in  his  own  bed,  and  for  a 

47 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologiie 


season  forget  the  Inebriate  in  meditation  upon 
other  subjects.  There,  for  instance,  was  Miss 
Atterbury.  Kittredge  had  seen  but  little  of  his 
acquaintances  of  the  Olivette.  True  to  her 
promise,  Mrs.  Atterbury  had  brought  down  the 
plans  for  the  cottage  and  had  exhibited  them 
to  him  one  morning  upon  a  sheltered  corner  of 
the  piazza ;  but  what  with  keeping  one  eye 
conscientiously  on  Freddie  Pitman,  and  the 
other,  quite  unconsciously,  on  Miss  Rachel, 
who  was  promenading  back  and  forth  with  the 
stalwart  Englishman  he  had  noticed  in  Boston, 
Kittredge  did  not  win  any  peculiar  credit  as 
a  critic  of  domestic  architecture.  He  could 
trace  the  twinkling  of  Miss  Atterbury's  russet 
Oxford  ties  down  that  immense  veranda  far 
more  accurately  than  the  course  of  Mrs.  Atter 
bury's  marvellous  winding  staircase.  Even 
after  that  young  woman  had  dismissed  her 
British  admirer,  and,  rejoining  her  aunt,  had 
pointed  out  with  her  own  finger  the  music-room 
and  the  loggia  and  the  butler's  pantry,  Kit 
tredge  praised  the  blue  sheets  confusedly,  though 
at  that  moment  it  could  not  even  be  urged  in 
his  excuse  that  one  eye  was  directed  to  Frederic 
Pitman.  It  was  after  Mrs.  Atterbury  had  rolled 
up  the  plans,  in  some  politely  disguised  dis 
appointment  at  Salem' s  perceptive  faculties,  that 
48 


Salem  Kittredge,  Tbeologite 


Miss  Atterbury  made  an  observation  about  the 
hops  at  the  Occidental.  The  season  before 
they  had  been  very  delightful,  she  said ;  the 
men  almost  always  dressed  for  them  ;  it  was 
very  good  of  the  men  to  take  the  trouble  to 
dress  ;  did  not  Mr.  Kittredge  think  so  ? 

Salem  quoted  this  remark  with  some  impres- 
siveness  to  Pitman,  after  dinner  on  Saturday 
evening,  when  they  were  both  in  No.  37. 

"Is  that  so?"  said  the  Inebriate,  looking 
up  from  a  novel  by  Gaboriau.  "I  imagined 
those  things  were  informal.  Over  at  the  Peli 
can,  you  know,  you  ought  to  dress  for  dinner ; 
that's  why  I  didn't  go  there.  Nevertheless,  I 
suppose  one  might  please  the  dear  creatures 
once  a  week.  Make  your  toilet,  Kittie;  go 
ahead  ;  I  want  to  finish  this  first,  and  I've  got 
to  shave  besides,  so  don't  wait.  I'll  be  there 
to  see  you  home,  my  dear. ' ' 

Several  times  during  the  next  half-hour  did 
Pitman  glance  through  the  door  at  the  theo- 
logue,  who  was  brushing  the  wrinkles  out  of  his 
rented  coat,  nervously  inserting  shirt-studs,  and 
examining  his  tie  despondently  in  the  mirror. 
Finally  he  hesitated  in  Lapham-like  wretched 
ness  over  the  problem  of  gloves,  and  Freddie 
shut  his  novel  and  lounged  into  the  other  room. 

"  Going  down  ?  "  he  commented,  carelessly. 

49 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 


"  Look  here,  I  don't  propose  to.  wear  gloves 
unless  I  have  to  dance,  and  perhaps  not  then. 
You'd  better  back  me  up." 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  assented  Kittredge,  with  a 
promptness  that  repaid  Pitman  for  his  effort. 
' '  Just  as  you  say. ' ' 

Pitman  surveyed  him  critically.  "  You're 
as  fresh  as  a  rose-bud,  Kittie.  And  that  re 
minds  me  I  ought  to  have  ordered  a  bouquet 
for  you.  I  wish  I  had  your  color  !  Plain  liv 
ing  and  high  thinking,  eh?  Au  revoir  !  " 

Salem  went  down  for  once  in  the  elevator,  to 
the  edification  of  the  boy,  and  lingered  awk 
wardly  a  moment  at  the  ball-room  door.  The 
orchestra  was  playing,  and  some  little  girls  were 
practising  polka  steps  over  in  one  corner.  A 
few  matrons  decorated  the  benches  at  the  sides. 
Kittredge  took  a  full  breath,  put  his  new  dress 
shoes  very  cautiously  upon  the  waxed  floor,  and 
steered  obliquely  across  the  room  and  out  upon 
the  piazza,  while  the  matrons  examined  him  in 
terestedly  and  the  little  girls  thought  that  now 
surely  the  hop  was  going  to  begin.  Salem 
leaned  against  the  window-casing  ;  his  face  had 
all  the  vacancy  of  a  professional  leader  of  ger- 
mans  ;  but  the  hop  did  not  begin.  By  and  by 
he  dropped  into  a  big  rocking-chair  outside. 
He  was  profoundly  uncomfortable.  He  wished 

5° 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologize 


Pitman  would  come ;  he  wished  that  he 
smoked,  so  that  he  might  give  himself  at  least  a 
nonchalant  air  ;  he  wished  that  he  could  walk 
up  and  down  the  veranda,  but  there  was  no 
one  to  walk  with,  and  he  felt  that  his  full  dress 
made  him  too  conspicuous  to  walk  alone.  Now 
and  then  a  bevy  of  young  girls  came  waltzing 
down  the  corridor  from  the  card-rooms,  circled 
the  big  floor,  and  whirled  back  again.  A  few 
extemporized  couples  stepped  in  from  the  pi 
azza,  danced  a  few  rounds,  and  were  once 
more  lost  in  the  groups  of  on-lookers. 

But  gradually  it  began  to  seem  more  like  a 
hop.  Two  or  three  indefatigable  youths  in 
tennis  suits  and  sashes  were  taking  every  dance. 
Young  women  glided  in  from  nowhere  in  par 
ticular  ;  and  when  a  party  came  over  from  the 
Pelican — all  of  the  men  in  irreproachable  toilet, 
and  one  with  a  cravat  of  exactly  the  same  ex 
treme  style  as  his  own — Kittredge  commenced 
to  feel  not  so  much  out  of  place  after  all.  His 
great  mistake,  he  reflected,  had  been  in  coming 
down  so  early.  He  still  sat  there  in  his  rocker, 
and  waited,  in  a  vague  way,  for  Miss  Atter- 
bury.  He  had  a  sort  of  instinct  that  they 
would  drift  together,  and  that  she  would  be 
pleased  to  see  him  in  evening  dress.  He  could 
not  dance  with  her,  he  did  not  even  hope  to 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 


walk  with  her,  and  yet  he  felt  sure  that  they 
would  meet.  An  hour  passed.  At  last  she 
came;  Salem  recognized  her  the  instant  she 
emerged  from  the  office  door  with  her  aunt. 
They  paused  a  moment,  looking  down  the  ve 
randa  ;  then  they  advanced  slowly,  the  girl  in 
front,  threading  her  way  among  the  crowded 
chairs  close  by  the  railing,  where  the  breeze 
blew  the  hanging  Virginia  creeper  against  her 
shoulders,  and  the  electric  lamps,  blended  with 
the  moonlight,  shone  full  upon  her  face.  Peo 
ple  turned  to  look  at  her  as  she  went  by.  She 
passed  the  first  window  and  then  the  second  ; 
Salem  was  waiting  by  the  third.  He  sprang  up 
eagerly  as  the  ladies  reached  it. 

"  Good-evening  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  have 
been  hoping  for  you.  Mrs.  Atterbury,  take 
this  chair.  Miss  Atterbury,  allow  me."  But 
the  aunt  saw  an  old  acquaintance  just  inside  the 
ball-room,  and  would  not  sit  down. 

"Rachel  may  stay  if  she  likes,"  she  gra 
ciously  permitted.  "  Don't  catch  cold,  my 
dear  ;  take  this  wrap.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Kit 
tredge.  ' ' 

The  girl  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  and 
Kittredge  dropped  the  soft  wool  wrap  around 
her  shoulders.  Her  gown  was  a  delicate  blue 
gauze,  and  she  drew  the  wrap  tightly  about 

52 


Salem  Kit tr edge,   Tbeologue 


her  as  she  sat  back  again  and  looked  up  at 
him.  He  was  finer-looking  than  she  had 
thought :  clear-eyed,  dark-haired,  with  a  fresh 
color  in  his  honest  face ;  as  cleanly -built, 
wholesome  a  fellow  of  twenty-six  as  Bar  Harbor 
could  exhibit.  She  was  pleased  to  think  that 
someone  had  been  planning  for  her  coming — a 
young  woman  of  twenty- five  knows  that  the 
time  may  arrive  when  these  small  attentions 
will  be  held  at  their  due  price — and  she  resolved 
to  be  very  nice  to  him. 

They  talked  of  the  breeze,  the  White  Squad 
ron,  and  the  house  plans  ;  of  the  people  from 
the  Pelican,  now  thick  upon  the  ball-room 
floor,  and  of  the  -fabulous  table  d"1  hote  at  the 
Cuttyhunk ;  they  discussed  their  personal  likes 
and  dislikes,  the  perils  of  American  democracy, 
and  the  spread  of  ritualism  in  the  Episcopal 
Church ;  and  still  he  did  not  ask  her  to  dance. 
She  wondered  if  he  knew  how.  She  had  not 
supposed  him  a  dancing  man,  but  his  full  dress 
puzzled  her  ;  she  had  not  the  remotest  idea  that 
he  had  acted  upon  her  chance  remark  about  the 
gentlemen  of  the  previous  season.  He  was 
talking  well,  and  she  was  conscious  of  liking 
him,  of  really  liking  him  very  much,  and  yet 
she  was  dying  to  dance ;  it  was  a  delicious 
waltz  the  orchestra  was  playing — one  of  Del- 

53 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologne 


ibes's  things.  She  glanced  occasionally  at  the 
Honourable  Plantagenet,  as  he  circled  past  the 
window  in  a  gorgeous  waistcoat.  He  would 
ask  her,  she  knew. 

Yet  she  made  Salem  feel  that  she  utterly  ig 
nored  what  was  going  on  in  the  ball-room.  He 
would  have  sworn  that  one  could  not  converse 
so  earnestly  about  ritualism  with  a  mind  in 
clined  at  the  same  moment  to  a  mundane  pleas 
ure.  Her  grave  blue  eyes  did  not  seem  for  an 
instant  to  be  wandering  from  his  own.  He  was 
perfectly  at  his  ease  now;  he  was  in  fairyland. 

It  was  one  of  those  ardent  youths  in  white 
flannel,  who  had  been  whispering  together  and 
looking  toward  Miss  Atterbury,  that  finally 
broke  the  spell,  for  he  crossed  to  the  threshold 
where  she  was  sitting,  and  made  her  his  best 
dancing-school  bow.  The  music  was  just  be 
ginning  again.  "Good-evening,  Richard," 
she  said,  smilingly;  "  are  you  sure  you  are  not 
too  tired  ?  ' '  And  with  a  deprecating  glance 
at  Kittredge,  as  if  to  say,  "  You  see  I  do  not 
wish  to  disappoint  the  boy, ' '  she  glided  off.  It 
took  Salem  a  minute  to  realize  the  situation  :  a 
boy  had  carried  her  away  from  him,  an  accursed 
boy  with  grass-stains  on  his  tennis  trousers  and 
a  rent  in  his  rumpled  sash  ! 

He   rose   helplessly  to  his   feet.      Someone 

54 


Salem  Kittredge,   Tbeologite 


touched  his  elbow  ;  it  was  the  little  fellow  who 
ran  the  elevator.  ''The  clerk  wants  to  see 
you  in  the  office,  sir,"  he  whispered.  Salem 
groaned.  He  had  forgotten  Pitman  for  two 
whole  hours,  and  hurriedly  he  shouldered  his 
way  up  the  veranda  to  the  office,  with  a  cer 
tainty  that  something  was  wrong. 

The  clerk  leaned  over  the  desk  confiden 
tially.  "The  head-waiter  says  he  has  had  to 
send  a  good  deal  of  liquid  up  to  37  to-night. 
Can  you  keep  that  young  fellow  quiet?  "  Kit 
tredge  dashed  up  the  two  flights  and  down  the 
corridor  to  the  door  of  No.  37.  He  listened  a 
moment ;  the  Inebriate's  husky  tenor  was  me 
andering  gently  through  the  second  stanza  of 
Bishop  Heber's  missionary  hymn.  He  entered 
firmly.  Upon  the  centre-table,  flanked  by  a 
little  pitcher  of  shaving  water  and  the  glasses 
from  both  dressing-tables,  stood  a  beautiful  il 
lustration  of  the  working  of  the  Maine  law, 
while  in  front  of  Salem's  mirror  was  Freddie 
Pitman  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  He  was  trying  to 
shave,  but  his  hand  was  no  steadier  than  his 
voice,  and  he  wiped  the  bloody  lather  from  his 
razor  onto  the  back  cover  of  the  Gaboriau 
novel,  as  he  turned  to  greet  Kittredge  with  an 
oath. 


55 


VI. 


AT  ten  o'clock  Sunday  morning  Kittredge, 
who  had  shortly  before  dawn  flung  him 
self  upon  his  bed  without  undressing,  was  wak 
ened  by  a  familiar  voice.  He  opened  his  eyes 
with  a  nervous  start,  stared  a  moment  at  his  dis 
ordered  evening  dress,  and  then  at  Freddie  Pit 
man,  who  was  perched  in  dishabille  upon  the 
foot  of  the  bed.  The  Inebriate's  pert  little  face 
was  rather  white  and  preternaturally  serious. 

"  Kittie,"  he  began,  "you  tell  me  about 
last  night,  will  you?"  Salem  shook  his  head, 
as  if  to  get  rid  of  a  memory. 

"Look  here,"  continued  Pitman,  "  it  may 
not  be  very  pleasant  for  you,  and  it  isn't  so  pe 
culiarly  pleasant  for  me,  but  I  want  to  know 
just  what  happened.  You  came  in  while  I  was 
shaving,  didn't  you?" 

Kittredge  nodded. 

"  Well,  I'll  shave  the  other  side  by  and  by. 
You  can  give  the  bell-boy  a  quarter  to  go 
around  and  pick  up  that  razor.  It's  too  good 
a  one  to  throw  out  the  window.  You  must 

56 


Salem  Kittredge,  Tbeologue 


have  been  a  trifle  nervous  at  that  stage  of  the 
game,  Kittle." 

The  Inebriate  himself  was  certainly  cool 
enough  at  present.  "  And  then,  let  me  see," 
he  continued;  "  no,  before  that  you  threw  out 
some  other  articles,  didn't  you?  Yes;  well, 
you  needn't  say  anything  to  the  bell-boy  about 
that.  And  then  you  locked  the  door  and 
tipped  your  chair  back  against  it,  confound 
you — I  mean  bless  you — and  that's  about  as 
far  as  I  can  get." 

"That's  far  enough,"  said  Salem,  raising 
himself  upon  one  elbow. 

"No,  it  isn't,"  persisted  Freddie.  "I'll 
tell  you  pretty  soon  why  I  want  to  know.  I 
suppose  I — used  some  strong  expressions?  " 

"Tolerably." 

"Pernicious  effect  of  early  education.  I 
take  them  all  back,  Kittie.  Did  I  show 
fight?" 

"Rather." 

"Well,  I  was  outclassed,  wasn't  I?  I  got 
the  feather-weight  sparring  out  at  Cambridge, 
but  I  guess  I  wasn't  in  it  with  you." 

"I  began  to  think,  once,  that  you  were." 
It  was  when  the  razor  had  gone  out  of  the  win 
dow. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Pitman,  appreciatively; 

57 


Salem  Kittredge,   Tbeologue 


and  then  he  lowered  his  voice,  and  there  was 
an  uneasy  curiosity  in  his  eyes.  "  Did  I  roll 
on  the  floor  much  ?  ' ' 

Kittredge  sat  up  straight,  and  smoothed  out 
the  wrinkles  in  his  shirt-bosom  before  replying  : 
"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  want  to  go  into 
these  details,  Pitman." 

''Exactly.  I  don't  want  to,  Kittie  ;  but  if 
the  symptoms  aren't  improving  the  doctor  tells 
me  I'm  a  gone  case — done  for.  You  grasp  it, 
I  suppose  ?  Now  answer  me  four  questions — 
it's  for  the  doctor,  you  know — and  I'll  let  you 
off." 

Kittredge  shuddered  a  little,  as  one  image 
after  another — pitiful,  horrible,  grotesque — rose 
afresh  before  his  eyes;  but  he  answered  the 
questions,  whereupon  Freddie  sprang  to  his  feet 
with  a  delighted  cry. 

"  Better  !  Every  one  of  them  better  !  Kit- 
tie,  if  man,  woman,  or  dog  would  stand  by 
me  when  this  thing  comes  on,  I  could  beat 
it  !  I  know  it.  You  see,  the  interval  was  five 
days  longer  than  before.  Will  you  believe  me 
if  I  tell  you  something?"  He  scrambled  up 
nearer  to  Kittredge  and  put  out  his  hand. 
'•'For  seven  weeks,  if  we  stay  together,  you 
needn't  worry  about  me  at  all.  I  won't  want 
a  drop  of  anything.  I  never  take  a  nip  at  my 

58 


Salem  Kit tr edge,   Tbeologue 


own  travelling-flask,  even.  I'm  a  regular  Tem 
perance  Band,  all  by  my  little  self.  But  the 
eighth  or  ninth  week,  look  out;  don't  leave 
me,  man,  will  you?  I  didn't  intend  to  fool 
you  last  night ;  I  honestly  meant  to  come 
downstairs,  but  symptom  No.  i  struck  me  and 
I  couldn't  help  myself.  If  someone  would 
stick  right  by  me  then,  I'd  be  all  solid  in  two 
years  more.  The  doctor  said  so.  And,"  he 
added,  with  a  queer  quavering  smile,  "I'm 
blessed  if  I'm  not  worth  saving,  if  I  do  say 
it." 

Kittredge  wrung  his  hand.  For  the  first 
time  since  he  met  the  Inebriate  he  felt  heart- 
certain  that  the  young  fellow  was  honest  with 
him.  And  then  Pitman  shivered. 

"I'm  going  back  to  bed;  I'll  sleep  till 
dinner-time  ;  two-thirty,  you  know,  Sundays. 
You  must  have  caught  cold,  man,  lying  there 
just  before  that  window.  You'd  better  take  a 
hot  bath  right  away  and  get  some  breakfast. 
Good-by  !  ' ' 

Church-bells  were  ringing  somewhere  as  he 
closed  the  door.  Kittredge  lay  a  moment 
with  his  eyes  shut,  listening  to  them,  before 
getting  up.  He  had  been  right,  after  all,  he 
thought,  in  coming  to  Bar  Harbor.  Then, 
with  joints  stiff  from  the  chilly  fog  that  had  all 

59 


Salem  Kit  tr  edge,  Tbeologue 


night  overwrapped  the  village  and  still  clung 
about  the  bare  summit  of  Green  Mountain,  he 
rose,  and  followed  Pitman's  advice  about  the 
bath  and  breakfast. 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  afterward  he  left 
the  hotel  and  blundered  by  mistake  into  the 
Chapel  of  St.  Anastasia.  The  usher  set  a  chair 
in  the  aisle  for  him,  and  as  he  had  come  in  so 
late,  he  did  not  wish  to  withdraw,  though  he 
felt  no  particular  interest  in  the  unimpeachable 
platitudes  about ' '  The  Moral  Uses  of  Courtesy," 
which  a  great  bishop  was  delivering.  In  the 
course  of  his  brief  frontier  experience,  Salem 
had  written  too  many  poor  sermons  himself  not 
to  know  one  when  he  heard  it,  and  his  eyes 
wandered.  He  had  never  seen  so  many  per 
fectly  dressed  people  in  his  life,  and  they  all 
seemed  listening  devoutly.  Doors  and  windows 
were  wide  open,  and  a  breeze  from  the  pine 
forests  crept  through  the  chapel,  soothing  every 
sense  to  a  delicious  calm.  He  wondered  if  he 
should  go  to  sleep  if  he  closed  his  eyelids  a 
little — ever  so  little — they  felt  so  hot.  He 
found  himself  nodding  once,  twice,  then  with 
a  virtuous  effort  he  sat  bolt  upright,  and  from 
this  vantage  ground  discovered  Rachel  Atter- 
bury's  bonnet. 

It  was  directly  in  front  of  one  of  the  open 

60 


Salem  Kit tr edge,   Tbeologue 


windows,  and  he  had  the  absurd  fancy  that  the 
blue-winged  lace  might  fly  out  at  any  instant  if 
he  did  not  watch.  He  bent  forward  a  trifle  ; 
no,  it  was  fastened  by  velvet  ribbons  beneath 
her  chin,  and  they  were  pinned  there  with  a 
glistening  moonstone.  Shamelessly  he  moved 
his  chair,  that  he  might  see  her  face.  It  was 
turned  reverently  to  the  bishop ;  all  its  delicate 
lines  were  subdued  into  a  gracious  harmony  of 
expectant  feeling.  There  was  a  grave,  mystic 
rapture  in  her  eyes  that  smote  Kittredge  with  a 
sense  of  awe.  She  must  believe  herself  in  the 
house  of  the  Lord  ;  he  had  been  tarrying  all 
the  time  in  the  Chapel  of  St.  Anastasia.  He 
looked  away  from  her  to  the  preacher  and 
listened  for  a  few  sentences,  then  he  glanced 
back  at  her  with  a  sort  of  wonder ;  yet  to  have 
had  her  gaze  at  him  as  she  did  at  the  bishop, 
Salem  would  have  been  quite  willing  to  preach 
the  sermon. 

When  the  service  was  over  he  waited  for  her 
in  the  porch,  just  as  he  had  seen  the  swains 
do  in  his  native  town  of  Burridge,  and  they 
strolled  back  to  the  Occidental,  down  the  nar 
row  plank-walks,  side  by  side.  He  felt  more 
at  ease  in  his  old  black  Sunday  suit  than  in 
white  flannel.  He  felt  that  it  even  gave  his 
conversation  a  certain  weight.  Not  that  their 
61 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 


talk  was  peculiarly  profound :  it  turned  first 
upon  Mrs.  Atterbury,  who  had  preferred  to  at 
tend  the  Unitarian  service,  as  was  her  wont ; 
then  back  upon  the  growth  of  ritualism,  until 
both  remembered  they  had  already  argued 
the  question  the  evening  before;  and  finally 
upon  Frederic  Pitman.  She  asked,  innocently 
enough,  where  Mr.  Pitman  was,  and  when 
Salem  remarked  inadvertently  that  he  had  not 
yet  risen,  her  face  clouded,  as  if  a  hint  had 
been  given  of  some  irregularity  of  life.  She 
even  went  so  far  as  to  admit  that  there  had 
been  rumors  at  Magnolia  that  he  was  not  en 
tirely  "  nice."  Salem  tried  to  explain,  found 
it  a  trifle  embarrassing,  and  then,  his  honest 
soul  filled  with  sympathy  for  the  boy's  effort  to 
reform,  he  frankly  told  her  the  facts  concern 
ing  Pitman's  peculiar  malady.  She  listened, 
at  first  uncomfortably,  then  eagerly,  at  last 
with  something  of  that  passion  for  reforming 
things  and  people  without  which  a  good  Amer 
ican  woman  is  incomplete. 

11  So  you  see  how  it  is,  Miss  Atterbury," 
he  concluded.  "  He  isn't  a  bad  fellow.  A 
kinder,  more  thoughtful  man  doesn't  exist; 
and  he  has  ability,  too.  As  he  told  me,"  and 
Salem's  voice  trembled  as  he  quoted  words 
that  had  made  a  deep  impression  upon  himself, 
62 


Salem  Kittredge,   Tbeologue 


"  '  if  man,  woman,  or  dog  would  stick  by  me, 
I  could  beat  it.'  ' 

She  looked  up  at  him,  with  a  quick  glance 
of  sympathy.  He  had  never  seen  her  eyes 
so  lovely.  "  May  I  tell  my  aunt?"  she 
asked.  They  were  just  passing  between  the 
stone  gate-posts  of  the  Occidental  grounds. 
"  She  will  be  so  glad  to  hear  this.  She 
knows  Mr.  Pitman's  mother — the  sweetest  little 
woman,  she  says.  And  perhaps,  if  we  could 
make  it  pleasanter  for  Mr.  Pitman,  we  might 
help  you  now  and  then.  It  is  a  very  noble 
thing  you  are  doing,  may  I  say  so  ?  It  is  quite 
worth  devoting  one's  whole  summer  to,  Mr. 
Kittredge. ' ' 

He  had  said  nothing  about  that  trip  around 
the  world. 


VII. 

AT  dinner  that  afternoon  the  head-waiter 
assigned  to  Kittredge  and  Pitman  seats 
at  one  of  the  side  tables,  at  the  very  one, 
indeed,  where  the  Atterbury  ladies  already  had 
places.  Pitman  considered  this  advancement 
as  the  slowly  ripening  fruit  of  the  fee  he  had 
given  on  arrival,  but  Salem  inferred,  and 
rightly,  that  Mrs.  Atterbury  had  consented  to 
join  the  informal  league  for  the  moral  amelio 
ration  of  the  Inebriate,  and  had  taken  this 
initial  step.  Young  Pitman's  deportment  was 
certainly  such  as  to  repay  all  efforts  taken  in 
his  behalf.  His  manners  were  irreproachable  ; 
indeed,  Miss  Rachel  could  not  fail  to  notice 
that  he  understood  some  trifling  technicalities 
better  than  Mr.  Kittredge.  No  professional 
diner-out  had  a  richer  fund  of  anecdote,  or  a 
more  charming  fluency.  Salem  was  immensely 
proud  of  him,  and  throughout  dinner  endeav 
ored  with  entire  success  to  keep  himself  in  the 
background. 

Mrs.  Atterbury   in   particular   was   delighted 

64 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologite 


with  Frederic  Pitman.  She  had  reached  that 
age  when  she  wanted  to  have  bright  talkers 
around  her,  especially  if  they  were  good-natured 
young  men  with  a  turn  for  practical  affairs. 
She  liked  to  see  a  young  fellow  efficient ;  she 
enjoyed  knowing  that  Pitman  had  been  so  suc 
cessful  in  pushing  the  Primitive  Pellets ;  she 
even  gave  a  decided  Pellet  contour  to  the  con 
versation,  to  Miss  Rachel's  dismay.  Mrs.  At- 
terbury  had  absolutely  none  of  the  romanticism 
that  threw  a  vague  but  delightful  haze  over 
some  of  her  niece's  projects.  What  she  saw 
at  all,  she  saw  very  clearly,  and  she  flattered 
herself  that  in  every- day  matters  she  usually 
knew  the  end  from  the  beginning.  In  her  way, 
too,  she  was  democratic.  If  the  Pitmans  could 
do  with  Pellets  what  the  Atterburys,  from  the 
old  Colonel  down,  had  done  with  Leather,  why 
should  they  not  ?  And,  finally,  she  was  quite 
sure  that  if  young  Pitman  had  discovered  the 
specific  for  fever  and  ague,  he  would  te  bright 
enough  to  know  whether  her  architect  had 
made  a  mistake  in  that  winding  staircase. 

Dinner  over,  she  announced  an  intention  of 
inspecting  the  cottage,  and  invited  the  young 
men  to  accompany  her.  "  The  cottage  again 
— and  Sunday,  too,  Auntie  !  "  exclaimed  Miss 
Rachel — but  she  went  for  her  bonnet.  The 

65 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologue 

new  summer  home  of  the  Atterburys  was  down 
behind  the  Occidental,  on  the  thick- wooded 
rocky  shore.  The  timbers  were  already  raised, 
and  the  ground-plan  of  the  rooms  could  easily  be 
traced.  Salem  and  Miss  Atterbury  picked  their 
way  over  the  unfloored  joists  for  awhile,  but  she 
declined  to  mount  the  ladder  to  the  second 
story,  and  the  result  was  that  they  soon  took 
shelter  upon  the  shady  side  of  the  structure, 
where  they  sat  upon  a  couple  of  lime  barrels 
and  talked  about  the  "  Golden  Legend."  Mrs. 
Atterbury  and  the  Inebriate  were  meantime 
settling  the  stair  problem  from  an  advantageous 
position  upon  the  second  floor.  It  all  proved 
very  informal  and  agreeable,  and  Salem  was 
thoroughly  confident,  as  the  four  sauntered  home 
together  toward  sundown,  that  such  companion 
ship  would  do  a  great  deal  for  young  Pitman — 
indeed  for  anybody.  As  for  himself,  this  whole 
day,  after  such  a  night,  had  been  Paradise  fol 
lowing  the  Inferno.  He  could  almost  fancy 
that  he  saw,  anywhere  in  the  swiftly  changing 
tints  of  that  northern  sunset,  the  mystic  rose. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  week  or  two  the 
young  men  fell  into  the  habit  of  strolling  down 
to  the  Atterbury  cottage  of  an  afternoon,  and 
chatting  with  the  ladies,  who  where  almost  sure 
to  be  there.  The  proprietor  of  the  billiard- 
66 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologne 


room  they  had  patronized  supposed  they  had 
taken  to  playing  at  the  Pelican  tables,  and  was 
grieved  at  heart,  but  even  Pitman  enjoyed  him 
self  better  watching  the  workmen,  and  allowing 
the  ladies  to  elevate  his  moral  tone,  than  he  did 
playing  billiards  against  an  opponent  like  Kit 
tredge.  For  Salem  this  period  marked  an  epoch. 
It  is  a  distinct  stage  in  a  man's  social  evolution 
when  he  acquires  the  proper  use  of  the  word 
"charming,"  and  the  theologue,  in  the  stimu 
lating  atmosphere  of  Mount  Desert,  learned  to 
prolong  the  first  syllable  with  a  tender  enthusi 
asm  that  assured  his  social  success. 

Occasionally  the  four  took  long  buckboard 
drives  together  over  the  perfect  roads  of  the 
little  island.  Mrs.  Atterbury  usually  preferred 
the  front  seat,  just  behind  the  driver,  where  she 
could  jump  easily  in  case  of  accident ;  and  the 
Inebriate  sat  with  her,  partly  because  she  rather 
petted  him,  and  partly,  as  he  said,  out  of  a  gen 
eral  disposition  to  see  the  wheels  go  round. 
He  had  that  inquisitive  temper,  that  presence  of 
mind  and  immediateness  of  interest  which  fit 
ted  him  admirably  for  the  companionship  of  a 
woman  who  liked  to  feel  herself  a  part  of  this 
present  world — even  when  driving  through  the 
odorous,  lonely  woods  of  Mount  Desert  ;  while 
as  for  the  two  young  people  on  the  back  seat,  so 

6? 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologne 


far  as  their  joining  in  the  stream  of  talk  was 
concerned,  they  might  as  well  have  been — 
where  in  fact  Salem  most  often  was — in  the  sev 
enth  heaven.  When  the  conversation  of  this 
pair  grew  too  transcendental,  Mrs.  Atterbury 
was  wont  to  insist  upon  a  change  of  seats,  and 
then  young  Pitman,  more  pleased  than  he  would 
have  cared  to  show,  did  his  best  to  entertain 
the  niece.  He  was  somewhat  afraid  of  her. 
He  admired  her  face  and  the  elaborate  simplic 
ity  of  her  gowns ;  she  did  not  bore  him  with 
Ibsen  and  Buddhism  and  University  Extension; 
and  yet  he  knew  very  well  that  she  was  the  sort 
of  girl  who  "organized  "  the  poor  and  worked 
altar-cloths  and  looked  askance  upon  Inebriates, 
and  he  held  her  therefore  in  proper  awe. 

Miss  Rachel,  if  the  truth  were  known,  was 
often  quite  willing  to  relinquish  the  misty  up 
lands  where  she  had  been  wandering  with  the 
theologue  for  a  more  commonplace  conversa 
tional  saunter  with  the  heir  to  the  Primitive 
Pellets.  She  was  amused  with  the  Inebriate,  as 
was  everyone  else,  and  in  addition  to  that  she  was 
conscious  of  a  sort  of  maternal  pity  for  him — 
being  a  whole  two  years  older.  Then,  too,  she 
had  a  chivalric  sympathy  for  the  efforts  Kittredge 
was  making  to  save  him  from  his  one  error.  It 
seemed  to  h^r,  as  she  had  said,  a  very  noble 
63 


Salem  Kittredge,   Tbeologue 


thing  to  do,  and  she  felt  a  glow  of  ardor  at  the 
thought  that  she  also  might  be  an  instrument. 
Miss  Atterbury  was  something  of  a  saint,  and 
had  all  the  potentialities  of  a  martyr.  She  was 
full,  for  instance,  of  those  renunciatory  ideas 
which  cause  high-bred  girls  to  throw  themselves 
away  on  half-bred  ministers  ;  but  one  is  not 
always  equal  to  one's  highest  devotion,  and  it 
was  with  some  positive  comfort — under  a  lesser 
heat,  as  it  were,  of  the  sacrificial  flame — that 
she  endeavored  to  be  very  nice  to  Freddie  Pit 
man. 

Kittredge,  overhearing  scraps  of  her  friendly 
talk  with  the  young  fellow,  was  delighted  to 
see  them  get  on  so  well  together.  He  had,  per 
haps,  been  a  little  jealous  of  Pitman,  that  morn 
ing  upon  the  Olivette,  but  now  that  he  knew 
Miss  Atterbury  better,  he  could  afford  to  smile 
at  the  memory.  He  resigned  Freddie  to  her, 
as  one  gives  up  the  reins  to  a  better  driver  than 
himself;  his  responsibility  for  the  Inebriate  had 
been  lightened  by  so  much  since  he  had  walked 
home  from  church  with  Miss  Rachel,  and  had 
had  intuition  enough  to  tell  her  frankly  about 
Pitman's  malady  ! 

There  were  but  two  things  that  really  troub 
led  Kittredge,  as  those  delicious  weeks  went  by. 
One  of  them  was  the  Honourable  Plantagenet. 
69 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 


This  interesting  specimen  of  his  order  persisted  in 
promenading  the  Occidental  veranda  with  Miss 
Atterbury,  deep  in  the  discussion  of  American 
isms —  a  harmless  recreation  of  which  Salem 
thought  him  altogether  too  fond.  Once  or 
twice  he  was  asked  to  join  their  buckboard 
parties,  and  Mrs.  Atterbury  had  consulted  him 
about  the  quartered  oak  wainscoting  of  her 
dining-room,  having  a  sort  of  idea  that  quarter- 
ings  was  a  familiar  term  to  the  British  aristoc 
racy.  The  day  that  Kittredge  and  Pitman 
rowed  the  ladies  out  to  inspect  the  White 
Squadron,  the  Honourable  Plantagenet  was  on 
board  the  flagship,  renewing  a  Washington  ac 
quaintance  with  a  multitude  of  lovely  lieuten 
ants  ;  and  he  presented  all  of  them  to  Miss 
Atterbury  and  her  aunt,  leaving  their  civilian 
escorts  to  examine  the  new  guns  at  their  leisure. 
Even  the  imperturbable  Pitman  growled  upon 
this  occasion,  and  when  the  burly  Englishman, 
at  his  own  request,  steered  their  boat  back  to 
the  wharf,  Kittredge  was  quite  consoled  for  his 
own  awkwardness  as  an  oarsman  by  observing 
how  thoroughly  he  had  succeeded  in  wetting 
him  down. 

One  evening,  too,  when  the  Sleighton-Crush- 
tons  gave  a  huge  reception  at  their  cottage  in 
honor  of  somebody  or  other,  and  Mrs.  Atter- 
70 


Salem  Kittredge,   Tbeologue 


bury  had  secured  cards  for  the  two  young  men, 
Kittredge  felt  again  a  sudden  suspicion  of  the 
attache.  When  the  dancing  began,  Salem 
retreated  to  a  dark  little  balcony,  and  grimly 
watched  a  more  brilliant  scene  than  he  had  ever 
witnessed,  caring  only  to  see  how  often  Planta- 
genet  was  dancing  with  Miss  Atterbury.  Once, 
seeing  him  advance  toward  her,  and  the  Ine 
briate,  who  was  doing  his  duty  like  a  man, 
approach  from  an  opposite  direction,  Salem 
pushed  his  way  awkwardly  across  the  ball-room 
and  succeeded  in  keeping  himself  between  the 
Englishman  and  Miss  Rachel,  until  Freddie  had 
carried  her  off;  whereupon  Salem  beat  a  tri 
umphant  retreat  to  his  balcony.  She  came  out 
there  afterward,  with  her  fingers  upon  Pitman's 
elbow,  and  chatted  a  moment  with  Kittredge 
in  most  delightful  intimacy,  the  light  gleaming 
from  her  arms  and  shoulders  ;  but  she  shivered 
in  the  sea-air,  and  Pitman  folded  a  swan's-down 
wrap  about  her,  and  took  her  back. 

The  occupants  of  No.  37  rarely  discussed 
Mrs.  Atterbury' s  niece,  but  after  their  return 
from  the  reception  that  night  Salem  asked  the 
Inebriate  confidentially  if  he  thought  that  Plan- 
tagenet  was  paying  Miss  Atterbury  "serious 
attention."  Young  Pitman  answered,  with  en 
couraging  promptness : 

71 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 

"  He  looked  like  paying  serious  attention  to 
you,  Kittie,  I  can  tell  you,  when  you  shipped 
that  cold  water  into  his  waistcoat  the  other  day  ! 
Serious  about  the  other  matter?"  A  quizzi 
cal  smile  passed  over  Freddie's  pert,  sun-burnt 
face,  and  he  leaned  over  to  untie  his  shoestrings. 
"Doubted;  it's  the  summer  season,  my  dear, 
and  he  has  nothing  else  to  do.  Besides,  he 
hasn't  a  sovereign  in  the  world,  you  know,  and 
not  much  chance  of  ever  succeeding  to  any. 
Mrs.  Atterbury  would  never  let  her  niece  be 
picked  off  by  a  man  who  had  nothing  but  an 
attache's  salary." 

"  But  does  she  understand  about  the  Hon 
ourable  ?" 

"  Hm — humph!"  asserted  Pitman,  gather 
ing  up  his  shoes  and  other  articles  of  his  fault 
less  attire,  preparatory  to  retiring  to  the  inner 
room. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  persisted  Salem. 

' '  I  may  have  told  her  myself, ' '  said  the  In 
ebriate,  carelessly.  "Everybody  knows  it. 
Good-night,  Kittie."  And  Salem  went  to 
sleep  comforted,  though  he  woke  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  and  tried  to  calculate  the 
probable  difference  between  an  attache's  salary 
and  a  minister's. 

From  his  second  subject  of  anxiety,  also,  he 

72 


Salem  KittreJge,   Theologue 


was  relieved  by  a  word  of  his  protege.  As  the 
sailing  day  of  the  Richard  H.  Gulick  drew 
near,  Salem  found  himself  shrinking  from  the 
idea  of  that  trip  around  the  world  as  from  some 
thing  unthinkable.  So  much  had  changed 
since  he  had  promised  J.  Howard  Pitman  to 
make  a  trial  with  the  boy  !  Every  Monday 
there  had  come  a  letter  from  the  proprietor  of 
the  Primitive  Pellets,  closing  invariably  with 
'•  God  bless  you,"  and  Salem  had  a  sore  strug 
gle  between  his  sense  of  responsibility  and  his 
new  dreams.  He  could  not  go  around  the 
world ;  yet  perhaps  he  might  stay  with  young 
Pitman  awhile  longer,  if  he  was  wanted,  and  if 
— Ah!  there  were  so  many  "ifs,"  and  his 
heart  was  all  in  a  tumult. 

One  evening  in  the  second  week  of  August 
the  two  young  men  strolled  over  to  the  Atter- 
bury  cottage  after  dinner,  there  to  await  the  la 
dies,  who  had  proposed  building  a  drift-wood 
fire  down  by  the  rocks.  The  workmen  were 
making  rapid  progress,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Atter- 
bury's  frequent  changes  in  the  plans,  and  Sa 
lem  said  something  about  the  attractiveness  of 
the  building. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  assented  the  Inebriate,  as 
they  sat  down  upon  a  pile  of  lath.  "  Mrs.  At- 
terbury  ought  to  have  a  fine  house.  She  can 

73 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 


pay  for  it,  and  she  deserves  it.  She's  getting 
too  old  to  knock  around  from  pillar  to  post 
every  summer;  she  ought  to  settle  down." 

"It's  a  great  thing,"  said  Salem  earnestly, 
though  somewhat  vaguely. 

11  Correct  you  are,  Kittie.  I'll  be  hanged  if 
I  haven't  about  made  up  my  mind  to  settle 
down  myself." 

He  had  a  whimsical  look  that  made  Salem 
answer  "  Yes?  "  without  knowing  exactly  how 
to  take  him. 

"  Well,  why  not?  I'm  sick  of  the  road, 
though  J.  Howard  doesn't  suspect  it.  He'd 
like  nothing  better  than  to  give  me  a  half-inter 
est  at  the  Works,  and  I  don't  know  but  I  shall 
be  just  filial  enough  to  let  him  be  happy  in  the 
way  he  likes  best,  eh  ?  " 

"  And  the  R.  H.  Gulick  ?  "  ventured  Kit 
tredge,  his  heart  beating  fast. 

Pitman  fluently  consigned  the  R.  H.  Gulick 
to  Halifax. 

"  Kittie,  do  you  really  see  us  going  round 
the  world  together  on  a  brig  ?  ' ' 

"No,"  Salem  confessed,  with  an  immense 
relief. 

"  Nor  I  either.  We  couldn't  even  play  bill 
iards."  Then  the  sardonic  amusement  faded 
out  of  his  face  as  he  added,  seriously  :  "It  isn't 

74 


Salem  Kittredge,   Tbeologue 


necessary,  Kittie.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
If  I'm  not  on  the  road,  I  can — there  can  be 
somebody  to  look  out  for  me,  as  you  did,  and 
stick  by  me.  See  ?  ' ' 

His  eager  confidence  in  himself  was  hard  to 
resist.  Salem  could  not  help  wondering  why 
he  had  never  been  willing  to  try  so  simple  a 
plan  before,  and  yet  the  boy's  new  purpose  fur 
nished  a  ready  way  out  of  his  own  perplexity. 
"  I'll  write  your  father  to-morrow  and  resign," 
he  said,  rather  awkwardly.  "  My  six  weeks 
are  about  up. " 

"It's  been  a  great  six  weeks  for  me."  said 
the  grateful  Inebriate.  "  I  never  had  anyone 
stand  right  by  me  at  the  very  dot  the  way  you 
did." 

"  It's  been  a  great  six  weeks  for  me,"  mur 
mured  Salem,  but  he  was  not  thinking  of  the 
aid  rendered  to  young  Pitman.  A  straight 
path  seemed  opening  before  his  vision,  and  a 
long,  long  vista  down  it. 

Miss  Atterbury  appeared  over  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  followed  by  her  aunt,  and  the  Inebriate 
rose,  threw  away  his  cigar,  and  joined  her, 
while  Salem  sat  there  two  or  three  minutes 
longer,  in  a  sort  of  rapture.  Then  he  helped 
Mrs.  Atterbury  pick  her  way  through  the  debris 
behind  the  cottage,  down  to  a  cosey  nook 

75 


Salem  Kit tr edge,  Tbeologue 


among  the  rocks  by  the  shore  —  his  heart  re 
proaching  him  somewhat  for  not  having  always 
shown  Mrs.  Atterbury  quite  the  attention  de 
served  by  a  person  so  kind  and  bright  —  and 
motherly. 

All  four  set  to  work  gathering  driftwood,  but 
they  waited  till  deep  dusk  before  lighting  the 
pile,  and  then  found  that  the  dead  seaweed  was 
too  damp  to  burn.  Salem  struck  match  after 
match  in  vain.  At  last  Miss  Atterbury  de 
clared  that  she  had  set  her  heart  upon  having 
this  fire,  and  that  she  was  going  up  to  the  cot 
tage  for  some  shavings.  Pitman  politely  in 
sisted  upon  accompanying  her.  Kittredge  re 
mained  on  his  knees,  blowing  ineffectually  at 
the  smoking  seaweed,  while  Mrs.  Atterbury, 
wrapped  in  a  big  shawl,  was  perched  not  un- 
picturesquely  upon  a  bowlder. 

"  Haven't  you  any  paper?  "  she  asked. 

Kittredge  felt  through  his  pockets.  His  new 
flannel  suit  had  grown  unpresentable,  and  he 
was  wearing  that  night  the  ministerial  garb  in 
which  he  had  left  Boston.  "  Here  seems  to  be 
something,"  he  said,  pulling  a  pamphlet  from 
the  inside  pocket.  "  Hullo  !  "  He  tore  off 
the  cover  and  touched  a  match  to  it ;  the  im 
pervious  face  of  J.  Howard  Pitman  crinkled  and 
shrivelled  into  flame. 

76 


Salem  Kittredge,   Tbeologue 


Salem  tore  out  page  after  page,  and  laid 
them  carefully  above  the  first. 

"  It  isn't  anything  you  care  for?  "  inquired 
Mrs.  Atterbury. 

"Hardly,"  he  smiled.  "  Look  there  !  " 
The  ghastly  portraits  of  Southern  sufferers 
from  fever  and  ague,  before  and  after  using  the 
Primitive  Pellets,  were  writhing  into  distorted 
and  horrible  shapes,  and  the  driftwood  was 
catching  fire  from  them.  "It's  the  Pitman 
catalogue,"  he  explained.  "  I'm  glad  Frederic 
wasn't  here" — and  he  thought  of  the  delicate 
way  in  which  Miss  Rachel  had  turned  Pitman's 
back  upon  the  advertisement,  that  morning  on 
the  Olivette. 

"Really!"  said  Mrs.  Atterbury,  in  some 
amusement.  "  I  should  have  liked  to  see  it.  I 
am  told  that  the  Pellets  are  a  very  valuable 
property. ' ' 

"I  suppose  so,"  rejoined  Kittredge,  with 
the  indifferent  air  of  a  man  whose  interests  are 
beyond  the  reach  of  moth  and  rust. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  continued.  "Mr.  Pitman 
told  me  the  other  day  that  a  syndicate  had  of 
fered  a  certain  sum  to  buy  them  out.  It  was 
very  large  indeed.  He  has  a  lovely  mother," 
she  added,  rather  inconsequentially. 

"  I  dare  say,"   replied  Kittredge,  absently. 

77 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologue 


It  had  dawned  upon  him  that  here  was  the 
time  and  place  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Atterbury,  and 
the  blood  flamed  into  his  temples  at  the  thought. 
He  did  not  know  how  to  begin,  but  he  felt 
that  to  take  her  niece  from  her  without  warn 
ing  would  be  hardly  honest. 

"  She  is  something  of  an  invalid,"  Mrs.  At 
terbury  proceeded,  "  and  I  think  privately  that 
she  is  too  strong  a  churchwoman.  Rachel, 
now,  wouldn't  be  jarred  by  that  at  all.  Is 
Mr.  Pitman  an  Episcopalian  ?  ' ' 

"Do  you  mean  J.  Howard?"  He  was 
still  wondering  how  to  begin. 

"  No,  no.      Mr.  Frederic." 

11  He!  Oh — Excuse  me,  yes — I  think  so." 
Her  mind  seemed  to  dwell  upon  Pitman,  and 
he  thought  he  might  use  this  fact  to  lead  up  to 
his  own  suit. 

"  Pitman  and  I  were  looking  at  the  cottage 
to-night  before  you  came,"  he  began.  His 
voice  trembled  in  spite  of  him.  "It  seemed 
very  pretty — and  homelike,  you  know." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  enthusiastically,  "and  I 
believe  the  architect  was  right  about  that  stair 
case,  after  all !  Mr.  Pitman  said  he  was,  the 
moment  he  saw  it." 

"  Pitman  thought  it  was  very  homelike,"  he 
repeated.  "  The  house,  I  mean — not  the  stair- 

78 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologne 


case.  It  really  made  him  think  of  settling 
down — and  I  thought  so  too.  Don't  you  think 
a  young  man  needs  a — sort  of — home  ?  ' ' 

"  Of  course,"  she  responded,  cheerfully.  "  I 
hope  you  will  preach  that  doctrine  when  you 
get  into  the  pulpit,  Mr.  Kittredge.  And  he 
told  you  something  about  settling  down  ?  ' ' 

"  Oh,  he  mentioned  it,"  said  Salem,  bent 
now  upon  getting  her  attention  away  from  Pit 
man  ;  "  but  I  must  say  I  feel  much  as  he  does. 
I  want  to  settle  down  myself." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  he  threw  a 
couple  of  old  boat-ribs  upon  the  fire  be 
fore  going  on.  ''I  feel  as  if  the  time  had 

come "     He  hesitated,  and  she  broke  in 

cordially  : 

"  Well,  I  should  think  you  would,  Mr.  Kit 
tredge,  after  studying  all  these  years  a  system  of 
theology  that  no  one  really  believes,  you  see. 
It  must  be  a  great  pleasure  to  get  at  practical 
work.  We  think  it  has  been  a  wonderful  thing 
for  Mr.  Pitman  to  have  you  with  him.  It  has 
done  so  much  for  him  !  ' ' 

"  It  isn't  about  Pitman  that  I  wanted  to 
speak,"  he  began  once  more,  impatiently  ;  "  it's 
about ' ' 

"  Hullo,  Kittie  !  "  called  out  the  Inebriate's 
gay  voice  from  the  top  of  the  cliff.  "  Stir 

79 


Salem  Kit tr edge,  Theologue 


up    your    fire,    so    that    we    can    see    the   way 
down." 

Kittredge  gave  a  savage  thrust  at  his  bonfire, 
and  the  two  young  people  came  scurrying  down 
the  narrow  path  into  its  circle  of  light. 

"Where  are  the  shavings?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Atterbury. 

"  We  saw  Mr.  Kittredge's  fire,  and  so  we 
didn't  bring  them  down,"  answered  Freddie. 

Mrs.  Atterbury  nodded,  and  moved  along 
upon  her  bowlder  to  make  room  for  her  niece. 
But  the  girl  seemed  to  be  shivering  :  she  knelt 
on  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  and  drawing  off 
her  gloves,  held  out  her  slender  hands  to  the 
blue  and  green  flame  of  the  driftwood,  and  as 
she  smiled  across  at  Salem  through  the  blazing 
smoke,  he  knew  he  had  never  seen  her  so  beau 
tiful. 

"  It  was  good  of  you,  Mr.  Kittredge,"  she 
said;  "you  are  always  doing  something  for 
us. ' ' 

He  made  no  answer,  except  to  look  into  her 
eyes,  and  he  forgot  all  about  her  aunt  and  Fred 
die  Pitman. 

They  sat  a  long  time  around  the  fire,  but  no 

one  talked  much.      It  was  enough  to  watch  the 

driftwood  burning,    and    to   breathe    the  pine 

odors  that   the  land   breeze  brought   down  to 

80 


Salem  Kittredge,   Tbeologue 


greet  the  sea.  They  waited  till  the  fire  had 
died  quite  away,  and  then  scrambled  up  the 
cliff-path  toward  home.  Kittredge  offered  his 
help  to  Miss  Atterbury,  and  the  very  instant  he 
felt  her  light,  firm  touch  upon  his  arm  he  knew 
that  he  should  speak  to  her  on  the  morrow. 


8 1 


VIII. 

WHEN  the  morrow  came  fate  favored  him. 
He  wrote  a  letter  to  J.  Howard  Pitman, 
explaining  respectfully  that  Frederic  had  plans 
which  rendered  it  imperative  that  the  trip 
around  the  world  should  be  given  up.  The 
young  man  would  himself  communicate  them 
shortly ;  for  the  present  it  was  enough  to  say 
that  Frederic  was  contemplating  a  step  which 
would  give  his  father  great  pleasure.  Salem 
added  that  though  it  scarcely  seemed  necessary 
that  the  peculiar  relation  between  Frederic  and 
himself  should  continue  longer,  he  nevertheless 
felt  so  grateful  that  his  lot  had  been  cast  in  Bar 
Harbor  that  summer  that  he  would  cheerfully 
put  himself  at  the  service  of  the  Pitmans  at  any 
time,  should  the  young  man  again  desire  a  com 
panion,  and  provided  his  own  circumstances 
would,  in  anyway  allow  him  to  do  so.  Kit- 
tredge  was  rather  pleased  with  this  note  ;  it 
seemed  to  say  enough  without  saying  too  much. 
He  went  to  the  hotel  office  to  mail  it  and 
found  there  a  letter  which  was  singularly  oppor- 
82 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologue 

tune.  It  was  an  invitation  to  preach  as  a  can 
didate  in  a  desirable  church  near  Boston  upon 
the  following  Sunday.  He  had  known  before 
that  his  name  had  been  mentioned  there,  but 
had  supposed  the  church  and  parish  would  pre 
fer  an  older  man.  It  was  a  most  cordial  letter  ; 
he  felt  that  it  meant  a  call ;  and  he  strode  up 
and  down  the  side  veranda  of  the  Occidental 
with  a  nervous  smile  upon  his  lips.  He  told 
himself  to  keep  steady ;  he  had  seen  his  An- 
dover  friends  do  such  fatuous  things  just  because 
they  were  sure  of  an  income  and  knew  they 
could  marry  someone  at  once  !  Yet  here  was 
the  call  plainly  in  sight ;  it  was  a  strong  church, 
even  a  rich  church ;  Mrs.  Atterbury  would 
know  all  about  it ;  he  could  give  the  letter  to 
Mrs.  Atterbury,  or  read  it  to  her  himself,  and 
she  would  perceive  that  her  niece  was  not  to  be 
asked  to  starve  in  a  country  parish.  As  for 
Rachel,  he  believed  she  understood  him  already, 
and  that  a  word  would  be  enough.  Women 
had  such  a  wonderful  knack  at  guessing  ! 

The  ladies  were  out  sketching  that  morning, 
and  Salem  paced  the  veranda  a  long  time.  The 
Honourable  Plantagenet  took  a  few  turns  with 
him,  and  Kittredge  found  the  Englishman  not 
so  bad  a  fellow  after  all ;  he  was  amused  that 
he  had  ever  been  jealous  of  him.  Pitman 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologue 


was  deep  in  a  novel ;  he  seemed  rather  ill-tem 
pered — for  a  wonder — and  Kittredge  did  not 
disturb  him.  They  had  a  dull  lunch  together. 
Mrs.  Atterbury  and  her  niece  were  lunching  at 
the  Sleighton-Crushtons,  and  afterward  went 
directly  to  a  tennis  party.  The  afternoon  seemed 
interminable.  The  Inebriate  stuck  moodily  to 
his  novel  and  his  cigar,  while  Kittredge  walked 
to  Spouting  Horn  and  back,  to  compose  his 
mind — and  his  speech  to  Mrs.  Atterbury. 

At  dinner  the  young  men  were  again  alone. 
Pitman  volunteered  the  information  that  the 
ladies  were  dining  at  the  Cuttyhunk ;  there 
were  some  friends  of  his  mother  over  there  ;  he 
supposed  he  would  have  to  go  over  there  him 
self.  Until  dark,  Kittredge  sat  in  the  office, 
trying  to  read  the  Boston  papers.  Then  he 
remembered  that  the  Olivette  was  lying  at  her 
wharf  for  some  repairs,  having  run  down  a 
schooner  in  the  fog  the  night  before ;  and  he 
sauntered  down  to  the  boat  to  inquire  if  she 
would  be  ready  to  make  the  return  trip  the 
following  evening.  It  occurred  to  him  that  this 
would  give  him  time  Saturday  to  run  up  to  An- 
dover  and  select  one  of  his  written  sermons. 
The  purser  answered  his  questions  and  still  he 
lingered  upon  the  Olivette's  immaculate  deck. 
He  found  the  place  by  the  rail  where  he  had 
84 


Salem  Kittredge,  Tbeologue 


stood  that  wonderful  morning  with  Miss  Atter- 
bury,  and  he  looked  over  into  the  black  water 
lapping  against  the  wharf-piles,  and  saw  again 
her  hand  and  arm  as  she  pointed  out  the  nautilus. 
Loud  talking  and  laughter  at  the  bow,  to 
gether  with  brilliant  flashes  of  light,  roused  him 
from  his  dream,  and  he  strolled  forward.  The 
quartermaster  and  second  officer  were  descant 
ing  to  a  few  Mount  Desert  cronies  upon  the 
virtues  of  their  electric  search-light ;  \vhy,  at 
Port  Tampa,  the  winter  before,  they  had  sight 
ed  a  fish-line  clear  at  the  other  end  of  the  big 
pier  ;  there  would  be  no  use  trying  to  run  a 
blockade  nowadays  if  those  duffers  on  the 
White  Squadron  had  search-lights  half  as  good  ; 
and  then  the  quartermaster  began  to  flash  the 
slender  cone  of  dazzling  light  hither  and  thither 
on  the  water  and  the  wharf,  out  upon  the  ca 
noes  and  yachts  lying  at  anchor,  up  against 
the  rocky  path  under  the  Club  House,  and 
even  far  over  to  the  huge  side  of  the  Occi 
dental,  which  it  illuminated  with  a  pale  circle. 
Suddenly  the  quartermaster  turned  the  projector 
upon  the  wharf  again  ;  it  smote  blindingly  in 
the  faces  of  a  sailor  and  a  woman  who  was 
talking  confidentially  with  him.  The  crowd 
laughed,  but  the  woman  kept  his  arm,  and 
Salem  liked  her  for  it. 

85 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologue 


"  Try  for  them  folks  on  the  Cuttyhunk  piaz 
za,"  suggested  someone;  "it  ain't  much  over 
a  hundred  yards." 

The  quartermaster  turned  to  adjust  the  screws, 
and  even  as  he  did  so,  an  unaccountable  pre 
sentiment  took  possession  of  Kittredge's  mind. 
He  felt  horribly  certain  that  he  was  to  see  Miss 
Atterbury  with  the  Honourable  Plantagenet  at 
her  elbow  ;  the  thought  seized  him  that  he  knew 
but  one  side  of  her,  that  the  world  of  germans 
and  tennis  parties  and  dinners  and  cottages  was 
one  into  which  he  had  scarcely  had  a  glimpse, 
that  she  belonged  to  that  world  in  spite  of  her 
self,  and  that  she  would  marry  the  Honourable 
Plantagenet  after  all !  He  grasped  hard  at  the 
capstan  to  stop  his  trembling ;  the  voices  of  the 
men  buzzed  in  his  ears;  then  the  white  rays 
were  flashed  full  upon  the  Cuttyhunk,  and  he 
saw  her. 

She  was  standing  quite  at  the  end  of  the 
veranda,  with  the  swan's-down  wrap  about  her 
shoulders,  and  seemed  as  if  she  were  smiling 
straight  at  him.  The  Honourable  Plantagenet 
was  nowhere  in  view.  Of  those  near  her,  Salem 
recognized  only  the  diminutive  figure  and  ami 
able  countenance  of  the  Inebriate,  and  a  tumult 
uous  joy  swept  over  him.  He  might  still  claim 
her ;  she  belonged  to  no  man  else  ! 
86 


Salem  Kittredge,  Theologue 


He  walked  the  Corniche  road  for  an  hour,  to 
give  her  time  to  get  back  to  the  Occidental. 
He  abandoned  all  idea  of  speaking  first  to  the 
aunt ;  she  went  utterly  out  of  his  mind  ;  he  saw 
only  Rachel's  slender  figure  wrapped  in  swan's- 
down,  and  her  eyes  seemed  still  smiling  into 
his. 

Miss  Atterbury  had  gone  to  her  room,  the 
clerk  told  him  when  he  came  in,  and  he  hur 
ried  to  No.  37  to  get  a  card  to  send  up  to  her. 
She  would  come  down  to  the  drawing-room, 
he  knew ;  they  had  sat  there  together  a  dozen 
times  ;  there  was  a  door  leading  out  to  the  dark 
side  veranda ;  he  could  ask  her  to  walk  a  little 
with  him,  and  then 

He  opened  the  door  of  No.  37.  A  man  was 
sitting  on  the  bed,  with  face  buried  in  his  hands. 
In  a  startled  moment  Salem  recognized  the  Ine 
briate,  and  he  struck  a  match  and  lighted  the 
gas.  Pitman  looked  at  him ;  there  were  tears 
in  his  eyes. 

"I  guess  I'm  rather  broken  up,"  he  said. 
"Sit  down,  Kittie;  I  want  to  tell  you  some 
thing.  I  proposed  to  Miss  Atterbury  last  night, 
and  she  has  just  given  me  her  answer.  It  takes 
hold  of  me  pretty  hard ;  I  haven't  been  just  the 
sort  of  man  I  might,  you  see.  You  know  all 
about  it,  and  of  course  she  does.  I  told  her 

87 


Salem  Kittredge,   Theologite 


everything  ;  every  blessed  thing  ;  a  fellow  ought 
to,  with  that  sort  of  girl.  And  it's  knowing 
all  that — and  that  she  knows  it — that — it  breaks 
me  all  up!" 

It  was  getting  too  incoherent  for  the  amazed 
theologue  to  follow.  "You  mean,"  he  broke 
in,  a  certain  righteous  hardness  mingling  with 
the  sympathy  in  his  shaking  voice,  "that  she 
refused  you  on  account  of  your  record." 

"  No  !  "  cried  Pitman,  leaping  up,  with  the 
queerest  smile  around  his  mouth,  "  that's  just 
what  she  ought  to  have  done,  but  she  didn't. 
She  accepted  me  in  spite  of  my  record  !  She 
believes  in  me  !  I'm  an  engaged  man,  Kittie  ; 
queer,  isn't  it?  Put  it  there  !" 

But  Kittredge's  hands  were  griping  the  back 
of  a  chair,  and  his  rosy  face  was  gray. 

"  I  can't,"  he  groaned,  "  I  can't.     The  fact 

He  stopped.  Pitman  stared  at  him  an  in 
stant,  then  nodded  as  if  to  himself,  with  a  sud 
den  comprehension. 

"  I  didn't  suppose  that"  he  murmured,  slow 
ly.  "  Of  course  I  knew  you  liked  her.  I'm — 
I'm  awfully  sorry.  It's  hard  luck,  Kittie. 
Please,"  and  with  a  boyish  timidity  the  Ine 
briate  put  out  his  hand  again. 


The  Czar's  Diamond 


THE  CZAR'S   DIAMOND 

IN  the  heart  of  Old  Berlin,  hid  away  behind 
the  Borse,  there  stood  until  very  lately  a 
tiny  Gothic  church.  It  was  so  small,  and  the 
street  upon  which  it  faced  was  so  insignificant, 
that  one  might  live  in  Berlin  all  his  life  and  nev 
er  hear  of  it.  It  was  very  old,  much  the  oldest 
church  in  the  city,  though  no  one  knew  exactly 
the  time  when  its  stout  walls  and  quaint,  pointed 
arches  had  been  raised.  Yet  this  spot,  at  least, 
had  once  been  occupied  by  the  chapel  of  a  hos 
pital  built  for  the  Crusaders,  who  brought  back 
from  the  Holy  Land  the  pestilence  and  leprosy. 
Records  of  the  thirteenth  century  tell  of  this, 
and  all  through  the  Middle  Ages  the  hospital 
and  its  chapel  stood  there,  the  latter  always 
bearing  the  same  name,  the  Church  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.  A  hundred  years  ago  three  aged  lin 
dens  were  still  to  be  seen  in  front  of  it ;  and 
the  tradition  was  that  these  had  been  planted 
twigs  downward  by  three  falsely  accused  per 
sons,  who  proved  through  the  miraculous 


The  Char's  Diamond 


growth,  to  the  satisfaction  of  mediaeval  law, 
that  they  were  guiltless  before  God.  Here  the 
orphans  of  the  city  used  to  come  for  worship, 
after  there  were  no  more  Crusaders ;  and  in  the 
eighteenth,  century,  when  a  powder  explosion 
had  shattered  the  great  garrison  church  near  by, 
the  soldiers  of  the  father  of  the  great  Frederick 
were  marched  in  here  on  Sunday  mornings  to 
listen  to  the  reformed  faith.  Some  old  people 
now  living  can  remember  when  a  congregation 
of  converted  Jews  used  to  gather  in  the  chapel ; 
after  the  Hebrews  came  an  organization  of  Re 
formed  Catholics ;  and  thirty  years  ago  there 
were  special  services  here  for  droschke  drivers. 
The  old  walls,  therefore,  have  harbored  strange 
assemblies,  first  and  last,  though  in  the  latter 
years  there  has  been  hardly  any  congregation 
at  all.  Precisely  at  noon,  each  Sunday,  the 
sexton  carried  out  two  little  standards  and 
placed  them  on  the  pavement  in  front  of  the 
chapel,  for  a  sign  that  wagons  must  go  through 
a  neighboring  street  and  make  the  spot  even 
quieter;  and  then  a  few  persons,  never  more 
than  twenty  or  thirty,  most  of  them  old  people 
who  lived  near  by,  came  in  to  the  service, 
i  There  was  a  little  organ  in  the  gallery,  and  two 
or  three  students  of  theology  usually  attended 
in  order  to  help  along  the  feeble  singing.  But 
92 


The  Char's  Diamond 


the  Lutheran  pastor  preached  with  strange  ear 
nestness,  and  it  may  be  that  there  was  just  as 
sincere  worship  in  the  chapel  as  there  was  in 
the  crowded  Dom,  not  far  distant  upon  the 
opposite  side  of  the  Spree. 

Nevertheless,  the  time  came  at  last  for  the 
abandonment  of  the  old  building,  and  the  re 
moval  of  the  congregation  to  a  brand-new 
chapel.  One  bright  March  midday  the  closing 
service  was  held,  and  the  good  pastor's  voice 
trembled  somewhat  as  he  preached  from  the 
text:  "Except  ye  turn  and  become  as  little 
children,  ye  shall  not  enter  into  the  Kingdom 
of  Heaven."  His  auditors  were  more  numer 
ous  than  usual,  and  among  them  were  an  elderly 
man  and  a  little  girl,  who  for  months  past  could 
have  been  seen  every  Sunday  upon  a  front  seat 
in  the  queer  old  gallery.  The  pastor  had  in 
quired  once  of  the  sexton  who  these  persons 
were,  but  all  the  sexton  could  ascertain  was 
that  the  man's  name  was  Engel,  and  that  the 
yellow-haired  girl  was  a  daughter  of  Engel's 
landlady.  Herr  Engel  always  watched  the 
preacher  with  grave  attention.  He  wore  usually 
a  skull-cap,  he  had  a  square,  immobile  face, 
smoothly  shaven,  his  figure  was  rather  short  and 
heavy,  and  he  was  forced  to  climb  slowly  up 
and  down  the  gallery  stairs,  seeming  to  like  to 


The  Char's  Diamond 


hold  the  girl's  hand  as  he  did  so.  To  see  him 
upon  this  March  day,  one  would  have  guessed 
that  the  elderly  church-goer  was  a  retired  artisan 
or  man  of  some  petty  business,  ending  his  days 
in  peace,  and  preparing  his  soul  for  the  close  by 
listening  to  the  serious  words  of  the  thin-faced 
pastor.  The  guess  would  have  been  partly 
right.  Herr  Engel  was  ending  his  days,  and 
he  came  to  the  Chapel  of  the  Holy  Ghost  to 
seek  his  soul's  good ;  but  behind  his  tranquil 
face  there  was  a  mind  tortured  by  memory,  a 
will  wrestling  ever,  and  ever  overcome  and 
growing  weaker ;  for  the  man  was  not  what  he 
seemed  to  be.  He  was  an  Englishman  and  a 
thief. 

In  the  spring  of  1854  a  clever  theft  of  im 
perial  diamonds  at  St.  Petersburg  was  for  a  day 
or  two  the  theme  of  comment  in  the  European 
press.  The  outbreak  of  war  in  the  Crimea  had 
thrown  the  Czar's  palace  into  momentary  con 
fusion,  and  the  robbery  was  so  skilfully  exe 
cuted  that  only  the  merest  accident  gave  the 
clew  by  which  the  thieves  were  caught.  All 
the  jewels  were  recovered  except  one,  a  stone 
of  high  value.  The  criminals  were  promptly 
dealt  with,  and  though  the  police  never  found 
what  was  done  with  the  missing  diamond,  yet 
what  mattered  a  single  stone,  worth  six  thou- 

94 


The  Char's  Diamond 


sand  rubles  though  it  were,  in  that  battle  sum 
mer?  When  those  members  of  the  small 
English  colony  who  wished  to  leave  the  city 
were  allowed  to  do  so,  no  one  thought  of 
searching  Richard  Angell,  an  ingenious  lock 
smith  of  thirty,  who  had  gained  high  wages  in 
Russia,  but  whose  highest  wage  of  all  was  the 
diamond  conveyed  to  him  for  his  secret  share 
in  the  robbery  at  the  palace.  He  brought  this 
diamond  with  him  to  Berlin,  he  had  kept  it  for 
more  than  thirty  years,  and  it  gleamed  now 
with  an  evil  light  in  his  memory,  as  he  sat  in 
the  Chapel  of  the  Holy  Ghost  and  sought  in 
vain  to  find  his  peace  with  God. 

To  think  that  one  thing  will  spoil  a  man's 
life  !  All  he  had  done  was  to  make  some  dupli 
cate  keys.  The  other  thieves  had  been  honest 
with  him  and  had  given  him  what  they  promised : 
this  one  stone.  At  first,  after  coming  to  Berlin 
and  securing  work  at  his  trade,  he  did  not  dare 
to  sell  the  jewel,  for  the  risk  would  have  been 
too  great.  He  used,  nevertheless,  to  speculate 
about  the  price  and  to  plan  what  he  would 
do  with  the  money.  The  diamond  ought  to 
be  precious,  he  thought  to  himself,  with  a  kind 
'){  humor,  for  he  had  bought  it  with  his  honesty. 
Little  by  little  he  shrank  from  the  idea  of  sell 
ing  it,  at  least  for  the  present.  Often  he  took 

95 


The  Char's  Diamond 


it  at  night  from  its  hiding-place,  and  for  hours 
watched  how  the  candle-flame  was  flashed  back 
from  its  facets,  how  the  stone  grew  luminous 
within,  shining  now  white  and  cold  like  snow, 
then  warm  as  Crimean  sunlight.  This  Russian 
diamond  seemed  a  live  thing,  and  fascinated 
him.  The  months  went  by  and  then  the  years, 
before  he  knew  it ;  the  diamond  became  a  part 
of  his  life,  and  he  grew  to  love  it  as  other  men 
love  women.  He  used  to  laugh  at  himself 
sometimes,  and  wonder  what  would  come  of  it 
all.  It  was  absurd  enough :  a  young  fellow, 
all  alone  in  the  world,  with  no  one  dependent 
upon  him — he  might  travel  and  see  Europe,  he 
might  do  so  many  things  with  the  price  of  that 
stone — and  yet  here  he  filed  away  in  the  Ger 
man  workshop,  amused  himself  at  night  by 
looking  at  his  big  diamond,  and  did  not  even 
care  to  see  England  again  !  But  so  he  went  on 
years  and  years.  The  steady,  silent  workman 
felt  a  gulf  opening  between  himself  and  other 
men  ;  he  had  something  that  was  all  his  own. 
The  Angells  were  a  lonely  folk,  his  grandmother 
had  once  told  him,  and  did  not  need  other  peo 
ple  so  much  as  most.  It  did  not  occur  to  him 
particularly  that  he  wanted  friends.  He  was  on 
good  terms  enough  with  his  fellow- workmen,  to 
be  sure,  and  every  Thursday  night  for  a  long 
96 


The  C^afs  Diamond 


time  had  his  regular  seat  at  a  Stammtisch  with 
them,  in  a  quiet  little  place  in  the  Spandauer 
Strasse.  But  he  never  added  much  to  the 
joviality  of  the  company,  and  when,  shortly 
after  the  Franco-Prussian  War,  the  new  Rath- 
haus  was  completed,  and  the  other  locksmiths 
decided  to  set  up  their  Stammtisch  in  the  huge, 
crowded  Rathskeller,  Engel  slipped  out  of  the 
circle,  almost  without  their  knowing  he  was 
gone.  Occasionally  he  took  a  stroll  with  an 
acquaintance  in  the  Thiergarten  on  a  Sunday 
afternoon,  but  more  commonly  he  went  alone, 
sometimes  walking  as  far  as  Charlottenburg, 
where  he  would  hunt  out  a  corner  in  some  gar 
den,  under  the  horse-chestnut  trees,  and  have  a 
glass  of  Moabit  beer  with  a  bit  of  bread  and 
cheese,  before  tramping  back  to  his  lodgings. 
He  used  to  watch  the  Sunday  crowds  with  some 
curiosity,  but  with  no  great  interest.  All  those 
men  and  women  had  their  own  affairs  ;  they 
did  not  care  for  him.  Well,  he  did  not  care 
for  them  ;  he  had  his  own  affairs,  too. 

Gradually  he  came  to  wonder  how  he  could  ever 
have  thought  of  selling  the  diamond.  As  well  sell 
himself;  nay,  the  stone  was  himself:  had  he  not 
sold  himself  to  gain  it  ?  There  was  a  dreary  sort 
of  amusement  in  this  thought  of  the  identity  of 
himself  with  the  stone,  when  the  idea  first  oc- 

97 


The  Char's  Diamond 


curred  to  him,  and  it  amused  him  twenty  years. 
He  smiled  at  it  sometimes  while  working  at  his 
bench,  and  murmured  something  in  English ; 
then  the  other  workmen  would  eye  him  and 
whisper  among  themselves.  As  he  grew  older 
he  stooped  more,  got  heavier  in  figure,  and 
walked  less  on  Sundays.  He  had  always  been  a 
diligent  hand  at  his  trade,  but  at  last  he  took  so 
few  holidays,  and  hammered  away  so  taciturnly, 
that  even  those  who  had  been  on  friendly 
terms  with  him  were  inclined  to  grow  pro 
voked  at  his  lack  of  sociability,  and  to  discover 
that  he  was  queer.  Richard  Engel  only  dropped 
his  head  lower  over  his  work  and  talked  less 
than  ever.  But  one  day  he  felt  a  terrible  pain 
at  his  heart,  and  went  to  see  a  doctor.  The 
doctor  examined  him  carefully. 

"You  are  a  locksmith,  you  say?  You  have 
been  bending  over  your  table  too  much.  You 
should  stop  work,  or  if  you  will  go  on,  it  must 
be  at  your  risk.  Have  you  anything  laid  up, 
Herr  Engel  ?  "  It  was  the  most  natural  question 
in  the  world,  but  the  patient's  face  paled  with 
terror.  If  he  had  anything  laid  up  !  "No," 
he  stammered,  ' '  not  much. ' ' 

For  months  he  remained  idle,  and  then  for 
the  first  time  his  conscience  gave  him  real  un 
easiness.     He  was  not  so  very  old  ;  he  had  nev- 
98 


The  C^afs  Diamond 


er  thought  much  of  how  the  matter  might 
end  ;  of  course  it  was  a  sin,  this  queer  adventure 
with  a  diamond,  yet  the  thing  seemed  more 
strange  than  sinful.  But  that  sudden  pain  in 
his  chest  woke  him.  Death,  then,  was  waiting  at 
the  end  of  his  experiment.  He  found  that  he 
had  been  playing  a  cunning  secret  game,  with 
his  soul  for  stake,  and  had  all  these  years  been 
losing.  The  months  that  he  was  out  of  the 
shop  were  a  torture  to  him ;  he  grew  restless, 
nervous,  imaginative.  He  thought  of  restitu 
tion,  but  when  he  drew  the  brilliant  from  its 
case  to  look  at  it,  he  learned  how  he  had  grown 
to  love  this  stone  that  had  mastered  his  life. 
He  could  not  give  it  up.  It  was  possible  to 
sell  it  now,  and  to  live  the  rest  of  his  days  upon 
the  money,  without  risking  again  the  terrible 
pain  in  his  chest  that  came  from  the  locksmith 
work,  but  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  the 
thought  of  parting  with  it.  Sell  that  diamond  ? 
No  !  Nevertheless  his  conscience  stung  him  so 
in  these  idle  days  of  brooding  that  he  went  back 
to  his  old  place.  Here  he  found  employment 
for  his  hands,  but  the  sharp  twitches  in  his  chest 
kept  warning  him  and  turned  his  thoughts  to 
death;  death  led  him  to  the  fear  of  judgment; 
this  brought  him  back  to  the  diamond,  and  the 
diamond  to  his  spoiled  life,  and  his  life  to  the 

99 


The  Char's  Diamond 


inevitable  death  ;  such  was  the  inexorable  circle 
in  which  Herr  Engel's  mind  travelled,  and  his 
will  had  become  too  weak  to  break  the  circuit, 
and  still  one  year  after  another  slipped  by. 

It  was  of  all  this  that  he  was  thinking,  on 
that  sunny  March  noon,  in  the  gallery  of 
the  chapel,  while  gazing  vacantly  at  the  pas 
tor.  Is  it  a  good  deal?  A  drowning  man 
will  think  of  all  that  in  a  single  moment's 
time,  and  Herr  Engel  felt  like  a  drowning 
man.  It  was  the  last  service  in  the  old  chapel, 
and  he  felt  that  he  would  not  attend  one  in 
the  new.  He  had  come  here  at  first  with  Gre- 
tel,  the  ten-year-old  daughter  of  his  landlady, 
and  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  Chapel  of  the 
Holy  Ghost.  It  reminded  him  of  a  country 
church  in  Kent  where  he  had  always  gone  in 
boyhood,  and  he  fell  into  the  habit  of  coming 
regularly,  hoping,  in  a  puzzled  and  indefinite 
sort  of  way,  to  find  here  some  reconciliation. 
But  he  had  found  nothing  ;  he  was  a  thief,  and 
he  knew  it;  he  could  not  part  with  the  dia 
mond,  and  he  knew  it ;  he  dared  not  die  and 
face  God  without  making  some  reparation  for 
his  sin,  and  yet  he  could  not  even  make  up 
his  mind  to  confess.  Though  he  tried  to  listen 
now,  he  heard  but  little  of  the  pastor's  last  ser 
mon,  and  the  little  that  he  heard  he  could  not 
100 


The  Char's  Diamond 


understand.  It  was  about  children  and  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven. 

When  the  discourse  was  finished,  and  the 
clergyman  had  dismissed  his  people  in  peace, 
Engel  felt  as  if  the  waters  were  closing  above 
his  head ;  but  the  blue  eyes  of  the  child  with 
him  seemed  even  happier  than  usual.  She 
jumped  upon  the  seat  and  helped  him  on  with 
his  overcoat,  and  then  kept  tight  hold  of  his 
hand  as  they  came  down  the  narrow  stairs. 
His  heart  had  fluttered  hard  as  he  climbed  up 
them,  and  he  crept  down  slowly,  fearfully.  He 
found  himself  wondering  as  never  before  about 
the  life  of  a  child ;  it  seemed  such  a  strange 
thing.  There  was  to  him  something  pathetic 
about  this  German  maiden's  holding  his  hand  ; 
something  incomprehensible  in  the  fact  that 
they  two  should  be  coming  out  of  the  chapel 
together.  They  stopped  in  the  porch  and 
Gretel  spelled  out  once  more  the  inscription 
upon  a  tablet  that  commemorated  the  repair 
of  the  chapel  in  1597.  Then  they  dropped 
some  pfennigs  into  the  battered  tin  box  for  the 
poor. 

"  We  ought  to  give  a  great  deal  to-day,  Herr 
Engel." 

"  Yes,  Gretel,"  he  answered,  "  for  it  is  the 
last  time." 

101 


The  Qw's  Diamond 


' '  But  next  week  we  shall  go  to  the  new 
chapel ;  won't  we?  And  perhaps  there  will  be 
a  new  box. ' ' 

"Perhaps,"  said  Engel. 

They  turned  down  a  narrow  street  and  came 
out  upon  the  bank  of  the  Spree,  along  which 
lay  their  route  homeward  to  the  old  house  on 
the  Miihlendamm.  It  was  not  a  long  distance, 
but  they  usually  walked  slowly,  and  Gretel 
found  so  much  to  amuse  her  on  the  way,  and  so 
many  questions  to  ask,  that  the  walk  seemed 
quite  an  adventure  in  itself.  There  were  never 
such  gay  throngs  of  people  on  this  side  of  the 
Spree  as  on  the  other,  where  the  museums  and 
the  palace  were,  and  yet  Engel  and  the  child 
were  always  sure  of  seeing  some  smartly  attired 
young  lieutenant  stalking  stiffly  along  the  pave 
ment,  or  a  merry  droschke  load  of  corps-students 
in  colored  caps,  or  perhaps  a  stray  peasant  from 
the  Spree wald,  in  his  Sunday  best.  The  child 
noticed  everything  :  sometimes  she  would  make 
Engel  stop  by  the  landing  over  the  river  to  see 
the  fishermen  empty  the  living  freight  of  their 
black  boats  into  the  great  water-tubs  sent  from 
the  fish-market  to  receive  them ;  and  she  would 
clap  her  hands  when  a  reluctant  eel  wound  him 
self  skilfully  into  the  meshes  of  the  landing-net 
and  refused  to  be  shaken  into  the  tub  as  if  he 
102 


The  Qw's  Diamond 


had  a  premonition  of  his  fate.  But  even  when 
there  was  nothing  to  see  upon  the  street,  Gretel 
was  still  satisfied,  for  then  she  made  Engel  tell 
her  stories.  He  told  her  all  the  fairy  stories  he 
ever  had  heard  in  his  boyhood,  though  many 
of  them  she  knew  as  well  as  he,  only  that 
in  Grimm  they  were  changed  a  little.  When 
he  could  remember  no  more,  he  began  invent 
ing,  and  this  habit  had  grown  upon  him  in  the 
months  immediately  preceding  that  March  day, 
until  he  found  a  certain  pleasure  in  it.  The 
girl  always  stood  ready  to  help  him  if  his  wits 
gave  out,  and  indeed  they  called  it  sometimes 
just  making  up  stories  together.  But  to-day,  as 
they  walked  along,  his  mind  was  fixed  else 
where  than  upon  her  amusement. 

"Tell  me,  Gretel,"  he  said,  absently, 
"  could  you  understand  the  sermon?  " 

"  Oh,  yes!  It  was  beautiful,  but  just  once 
I  was  a  bad  girl ;  I  did  not  listen.  I  was  think 
ing  of  something  else." 

"You  were?  "  he  remarked. 

"Yes,  and  you  must  guess  what  it  was,  and 
then  I  will  tell  you. ' ' 

"But  I  am  stupid,  Gretel." 

"  Oh,  then  I  will  help  you.  It  is  small,  and 
yellow.  Can't  you  guess?  And  lives  in  a 
cage — of  course  you  can  guess  now." 

103 


The  Char's  Diamond 


"It  is  the  canary  bird  you  are  going  to 
have." 

"Right!  right!"  she  cried,  gleefully. 
"  You  are  not  stupid  at  all,  Herr  Engel.  But 
I  would  have  told  you,  even  if  you  hadn't 
guessed  ;  ' '  and  Gretel  added  demurely,  "  So  I 
was  thinking  of  my  canary  bird,  and  forgot 
about  part  of  the  sermon." 

"  That  was  not  nice,"  he  ventured. 

"  Oh,  there  will  be  so  many  sermons  more," 
she  said,  gayly.  "  But  did  not  you  under 
stand  it,  Herr  Engel?  " 

"No,"  answered  Engel,  bluntly.  What 
was  the  harm  in  telling  the  truth  to  the  child? 

"Were  you  thinking  of  something,  too?" 
she  asked. 

He  was  silent. 

"  Oh,  you  were,  you  were,  Herr  Engel.  I 
will  guess,  and  you  must  tell  me,  just  as  I  did 
you." 

"  No  !  no  !  "  he  said,  sharply,  and  his  heart 
beat  fast  and  gave  him  an  exquisite  pain.  "  I 
will  tell  you  something  else — I  will  tell  you  a 
story. ' ' 

It  was  the  readiest  escape  that  occurred  to 
him.     She   saw   that    his   breath  was   hurried, 
and  remembered  that  her  mother  had  told  her 
that  Herr  Engel  must  not  walk  rapidly. 
104 


The  Char's  Diamond 


"  Let  us  stop  a  minute,"  she  suggested,  with 
a  quaint  air  of  motherliness,  "we  have  been 
going  so  fast,  Herr  Engel." 

They  leaned  on  the  iron  railing  which  runs 
along  the  stone  embankment  of  the  Spree  and 
looked  down  at  the  water.  Several  people 
were  already  at  the  railing  near  them,  watch 
ing  some  of  the  white  sea-birds  that  find  their 
way  up  the  Spree  at  the  end  of  every  winter, 
and  that  were  fluttering  in  the  March  sunlight 
from  one  perch  to  another,  now  resting  on 
a  pole  stuck  in  the  river's  bed,  now  on  the 
fishermen's  boats  drawn  up  above  the  Friedrich 
bridge,  now  floating  on  the  water  itself — wild, 
free  things,  oddly  out  of  place  in  the  centre  of 
the  great  city.  Gretel  was  enchanted  with 
them,  and  it  was  only  after  some  minutes  that 
she  asked  for  the  story. 

"The  story?  Oh,  yes,  let  me  think,"  he 
replied. 

He  searched  his  brain,  but  there  was  only 
one  story  there,  and  that  was  his  own.  The 
girl  had  just  confessed  her  little  secret  to  him. 
They  stood  together  by  the  water,  she  still 
holding  his  hand.  He  felt  as  he  had  never 
done  before  that  he  was  on  a  level  with  some 
one.  He  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  curiosity 
to  know  what  the  child  would  think  of  his 
10? 


The  Char's  Diamond 


secret.  It  had  always  seemed  to  him  an  un 
natural  thing  to  confess  a  crime  to  a  friend, 
perhaps  because  he  had  had  no  friend  to  whom 
he  could  unbosom  himself,  and  he  had  known, 
too,  that  to  confess  would  be  to  lose  the 
diamond ;  but  now  this  curiosity  gained  hold 
upon  him.  A  child  was  such  a  strange  thing, 
and  his  life  was  such  a  strange  thing ;  perhaps 
a  child  would  understand  it  as  well  as  he.  But 
of  course  he  would  not  really  tell  about  him 
self;  he  would  tell  only  a  story  ;  and  this  ap 
peared  to  form  itself  without  his  will. 

"Yes,  Gretel,  it  is  a  story  about — about  one 
of  those  white  sea-birds. ' ' 

"  Good  !  I  have  never  heard  that,"  she  cried. 

"  No,"  he  answered. 

"Is  it  long?"  she  asked.  "  Because  if  it 
is,  you  can  tell  it  after  dinner." 

"Yes,  it  is  long,"  replied  Engel.  He 
wanted  to  say  :  "  thirty  years  long."  "  No," 
he  added  quickly,  "not  so  very  long  either." 
She  looked  puzzled. 

"  One  of  those  white  sea-birds,"  he  went 
on,  —  "no,  that  is  not  the  way  to  begin. 
There  was  once  a  little  girl,  who  saw  one  of 
those  birds,  and  thought  she  would  like  to  have 
it  for  her  own.  So  she  caught  it." 

"  How?  "  asked  Gretel. 
1 06 


The  C\ar's  Diamond 


"  That — that  is  not  in  the  story.  But  she 
caught  it,  and  to  keep  it  from  flying  away  she 
tied  it  to  her  with  a  string,  so  that  the  bird 
flew  over  her  head  wherever  she  went.  It  was 
such  a  beautiful  bird  ;  only  it  was  not  good, 
and  it  used  to  peck  at  the  little  girl's  fingers 
and  eyes,  and  so  made  her  trouble  always  after 
a  while,  oh,  so  much  trouble  !  " 

"  Why  didn't  she  let  it  go  again  ?  " 

"  Because  she  couldn't  untie  the  string." 

"  That  was  funny,"  said  Gretel.  "  But  go 
on,  Herr  Engel ;  what  did  she  do  then  ?  " 

"  She  didn't  do  anything.  What  could  she 
do?  I  said  she  couldn't  untie  the  string. 
What  could  you  do,  Gretel,  supposing  it  were 
you,  or  I ;  yes,  suppose  now  it  were  I?  " 

The  child  laughed ;  it  was  an  odd  story. 
Then  she  had  an  idea,  and  cried  triumphantly, 
"  You  could  cut  the  string  !  " 

"  But  I  can't  cut  it !  "  he  exclaimed,  with 
inward  agony. 

"Why  not?"  she  asked,  disappointedly, 
her  mind  too  full  of  the  problem  to  notice 
anything  peculiar  in  the  wistful  cunning  with 
which  he  had  substituted  himself  as  the  actor 
in  the  narrative. 

"  But  I  can't  !     I   can't — nor  you — suppose 
it  were  you — or  the  little  girl." 
107 


The  Char's  Diamond 


Once  more  Gretel's  blue  eyes  sparkled. 
"  No,  suppose  it  were  you,  Herr  Engel.  Do 
you  know  what  we  would  do  ?  I  would  take 
my  scissors  and  cut  it  for  you,  so  !  snip  !  " 

He  looked  down  at  his  companion  in  won 
der.  Would  she  really  ?  He  forgot  her  igno 
rance  and  innocence,  and  that  he  was  a  man 
and  she  a  child. 

"  But  what  became  of  the  girl  in  the  story  ?  ' ' 
she  questioned. 

"  I  don't  know — yet,"  he  replied.  "  Come, 
Gretel." 

They  went  on  again  down  the  sunny  street, 
which  was  filled  with  people  enjoying  a  Sun 
day  holiday.  Rather  a  pleasant-looking  pair 
of  companions  were  these ;  the  elderly,  grave 
man,  neatly  dressed,  stepping  carefully,  and 
by  his  side  the  decorous  German  maiden,  in 
her  pink  hood,  cheap  cloak,  and  heavy  shoes, 
with  her  long  braid  of  yellow  hair  down  her 
back,  and  the  Lutheran  hymn-book  in  her  red- 
mittened  hand.  More  than  one  person  smiled 
benevolently  at  them,  as  they  passed. 

"  But  didn't  anyone  ever  tell  you  the  end 
of  the  story?  "  Gretel  protested. 

Engel  did  not  hear  her.  "Suppose,"  he 
said,  slowly,  "  it  were  a  stone." 

"  Suppose  what  were  a  stone  ?  " 
1 08 


The  Char's  Diamond 


"  In  the  story,"  he  answered.  "  Suppose  it 
were  not  a  bird  at  all,  but  just  a  stone.  What 
could  we  do  then — supposing  it  were  I,  and 
you  ?  Tell  me,  Gretel,  what  could  we  do  ?  " 

She  looked  up  in  his  face,  a  little  frightened 
by  the  tone  of  his  voice.  "  You  are  so  funny 
to-day,  Herr  Engel."  Yet  he  held  her  hand 
so  closely  that  she  was  reassured,  and  she  re 
peated,  meditatively  :  "  Suppose  it  were  a  stone 
— and  it  were  you — and  I ;  what  could  we  do  ? 
Oh,  we  could  do  something,  you  and  I,  Herr 
Engel !  Let  us  see. ' '  And  she  nodded  wisely, 
amused  at  the  novel  idea. 

But  they  had  reached  home  :  one  of  the 
huge  old  houses  over  the  Spree,  upon  the 
Muhlendamm.  There  had  once  been  a  long 
line  of  them  here,  but  almost  all  were  now 
demolished.  They  went  under  a  black  arch 
way,  across  a  stone-paved,  dismal  court,  where 
the  snow  was  fast  melting.  The  locksmith 
glanced  up  at  the  north  wail,  where  hung  an 
ancient  wooden  sun  -  dial,  under  which  was 
painted  an  hour-glass  surmounting  a  skull,  and 
the  legend  "  Mors  cert  a  sed  hora  incerta"  It 
was  nearly  two  o'clock.  Herr  Engel's  chest 
hurt  cruelly  as  he  climbed  the  stairs,  but  he 
scarcely  noticed  it ;  he  was  intent  upon  a  last 
vague  chance,  and  he  had  put  that  chance  into 
109 


The  Char's  Diamond 


the  hands  of  a  child.  They  stood  an  instant 
in  the  dark  entry. 

"  Put  your  hymn-book  and  cloak  away,"  he 
said,  "  and  then  come  into  my  room." 

He  wished  to  have  a  moment's  time,  and 
shut  the  door  of  his  room  behind  him.  Then 
he  took  from  its  secret  place  the  leathern  case 
which  he  had  made  long  before  to  cover  the 
diamond,  and  laid  it  on  the  table  by  the 
window.  Not  two  minutes  had  passed  since 
the  girl's  hand  left  his,  and  he  felt  already  the 
old  irresolution.  He  hesitated  for  a  terrible 
second  ;  then  Gretel  knocked  at  the  door  and 
came  in,  and  he  knew  that  he  had  put  his 
affair — partly  at  least — out  of  his  own  hands, 
and  he  felt  childishly  weak  and  irresponsible. 
He  was  trembling  so  that  he  had  to  sink  into 
his  great  chair  by  the  table.  The  room  seemed 
stiflingly  hot,  and  he  breathed  with  difficulty. 

"  Open  the  window;  it  is  so  close,  Gretel," 
he  murmured. 

She  obeyed,  although  to  her  the  room 
seemed  cool  enough.  The  spring  sunlight  was 
streaming  in  at  the  window  and  resting  upon 
the  table  where  lay  the  leathern  case.  Gretel 
eyed  the  latter  curiously  for  an  instant,  and 
then  pulled  her  chair  near  Engel's. 

"  And  now  shall  we  finish  our  story,  Herr 
no 


The  Char's  Diamond 


Engel?  Let's  make  it  up  together.  What 
kind  of  a  stone  must  it  be  ?  " 

"It  belongs  to  someone  else,"  was  his 
broken  answer,  "and  it  has  cursed  my  life, 
but  I  cannot  give  it  up.  You  see,  Gretel,"  he 
added,  drearily,  "  I  can't  cut  the  string." 

She  could  not  understand  him,  and  his  words 
perplexed  and  alarmed  her. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  see  it,  Gretel?  Open 
the  case."  It  did  not  seem  to  him  that  he 
could  stir. 

She  did  as  he  ordered,  and  unfastening  the 
case  with  her  slender  fingers,  saw  the  glistening 
stone;  she  had  seen  hundreds  of  them  in  the 
windows  on  the  Friedrich  Strasse,  some  that 
were  shinier  than  this,  if  not  so  large;  and 
her  courage  came  back  to  her.  Engel  sat  gaz 
ing  steadily  at  the  diamond.  It  appeared  to 
him  duller  than  it  should  be,  with  sunlight 
on  it. 

"  Whose  is  it?  "  the  girl  asked,  in  a  subdued 
voice. 

"He  is  dead,"  Engel  replied.  "It  was  a 
long  time  ago — and  his  son  is  dead,  too." 

She  comprehended  more  clearly  than  before 
that  a  wrong  had  been  done. 

"But  the  family?"  she  whispered.  "Are 
they  very  poor — as  poor  as  we  are  ?  ' '  She  was 


The  Char's  Diamond 


ignorant  of  the  value  of  the  stone,  but  she  knew 
that  such  things  cost  a  good  deal,  as  much  as 
a  dress,  perhaps,  or  a  great  many  baskets  of 
coal. 

"The  family,"  said  Engel,  bitterly,  "are 
richer  than  the  Kaiser."  She  was  silent. 
Richer  than  the  Kaiser?  They  must  be  the 
fairies.  Then  she  asked,  with  a  child's  per 
sistency  : 

"Why  do  you  want  to  keep  it,  if  it  does 
you  harm  ?  ' ' 

"  Because  I  can't  cut  the  string,"  he  groaned. 
"  You  have  forgotten  the  story.  What  can  we 
do,  Gretel  ?  ' '  He  stared  at  her  with  imploring 
eyes. 

She  began  to  be  terrified  again.  She  could 
not  grasp  his  meaning  altogether,  yet  she  was 
sure  of  this :  Herr  Engel  hated  the  stone,  but 
he  was  not  able  to  get  rid  of  it.  It  must  be  a 
bad  stone,  and  as  she  looked  at  it,  she  found 
herself  afraid.  Yet  the  whole  adventure  seemed 
to  her  a  kind  of  fairy  story  in  which  she  had  a 
part,  and  that  gave  her  a  daring  which  other 
wise  she  never  could  have  had.  With  a  sudden 
impulse  she  took  the  smooth,  cold  thing  in  her 
fingers.  Engel  did  not  move. 

"See,  Herr  Engel,"  she  cried,  "let  us 
throw  it  in  the  river!  "  and  she  tossed  it  out 
112 


The  Char's  Diamond 


of  the  window,  and  leaping  to  her  feet  saw  it 
go  flashing  down  into  the  mnddy  water. 

With  heart  beating  fast  at  her  own  boldness, 
she  turned  to  Richard  Angell.  He  was  sob 
bing,  his  face  covered  with  his  hands.  There 
was  a  long  silence.  Then  he  rose  to  his  feet, 
and  she  saw  his  happy  tears. 

"How  bright  the  sun  is,  Gretel !  "  he  ex 
claimed.  "  The  summer  must  be  coming,  and 
this  summer — this  summer " 

But  he  pressed  his  hand  to  his  left  side ;  his 
face  flushed  swiftly  and  then  turned  white,  and 
Gretel  was  frightened  and  ran  to  call  her 
mother. 


By  the  111 


BY   THE   ILL 

I  HAVE  never  been  in  love  with  a  woman ; 
at  least,  not  enough  in  love  to  ask  any 
woman  to  marry  me.  I  do  not  know  what 
that  is  like,  nor  do  I  fancy  that  any  people 
know  except  those  who  have  themselves  experi 
enced  it.  Love  is  like  war,  they  say,  and  you 
cannot  possibly  know  anything  about  real  war 
until  you  actually  smell  the  powder.  It  is  all  a 
fiction  until  that  acrid  odor  is  in  your  nostrils, 
and  the  singing  of  the  bullets  is  in  your  ears. 
When  I  was  a  boy,  in  North  Carolina,  I  re 
member  running  to  the  pine  woods  one  day 
with  my  mother  and  older  brother,  and  hearing 
something  about  General  Sherman,  and  seeing 
our  barns  a-blazing  up  merrily,  but  though  my 
poor  mother  said,  "  Randolph,  you  will  always 
know  now  what  war  is,"  and  the  sentence 
somehow  stuck  in  my  memory,  I  did  not,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  know  what  war  was  at  all.  Nor 
do  I  know  to-day  any  better,  never  having 
heard  the  bullets  nor  smelt  the  powder.  No,  war 
117 


By  the  III 


and  love  are  not  to  be  talked  about  by  civilians 
and  outsiders.  Yet  once  upon  a  time  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  knew  what  they  both  were  like, 
civilian  and  outsider  though  I  may  have  been. 

It  was  in  Alsace-Lorraine,  one  June,  ten 
years  ago.  Many  a  dragging  month  I  had 
been  "  oxing  "  Sanscrit  and  Greek  for  my  doc 
tor's  degree  at  Strasburg,  and  when  the  thesis 
had  been  accepted  and  the  official  invitation  to 
the  final  examination  and  disputation  of  "  Ran 
dolph  Merivale,  from  America,"  had  been  duly 
posted  upon  the  university  bulletin  board,  the 
old  trouble  with  my  eyes  came  back  and  I  was 
forced  to  quit  work  altogether.  For  a  few 
days  I  kept  to  my  lodging  in  the  Hennengasse, 
to  avoid  the  bright  light  of  the  streets,  but  it 
grew  insufferably  hot  and  malodorous  in  that 
ancient  alley-way,  and  so  one  day  I  packed  my 
tramping  knapsack,  put  on  a  big  pair  of  goggles, 
and  marching  out  of  Strasburg  by  the  Ruprechts- 
auer  Alice,  struck  off  through  the  country 
toward  Fuchs  am  Buckel. 

One  can  never  get  to  Fuchs  am  Buckel  twice 
by  the  same  way,  so  perhaps  it  is  useless  to  say 
how  one  gets  there  at  all.  You  follow  the 
road  easily  enough  through  the  village  of  Ru- 
prechtsau,  between  the  high  walls  of  plastered 
brick  which  enclose  fruit  gardens  and  vegetable 
118 


By  the  III 


plots,  and  here  and  there  the  grounds  of  some 
old  manor  house,  with  weather-stained  and 
broken-nosed  goddesses  still  gleaming  in  the 
tangled  shrubbery.  But  beyond  the  straggling 
village  the  white  hard  roads  curve  and  intersect 
so  curiously  that  I  should  have  despaired  of 
following  them,  even  had  the  glare  not  been 
painful  to  my  eyes.  So,  knowing  the  general 
direction,  and  that  any  one  of  a  half-dozen 
footpaths  would  serve  my  turn,  I  struck  into 
the  first  that  offered  itself,  and  for  an  hour  and 
a  half  traversed  leisurely  the  rank  fields  of  grain, 
the  back  yards  of  thrifty  Alsatian  vegetable- 
growers,  and  then  along  under  endless  lines  of 
poplars,  until  a  sudden  turn  brought  me  out 
upon  the  high-road  again,  and  across  the  wide 
meadows  I  caught  sight  of  the  heavy  clump  of 
woodland  against  which  were  the  big  sloping 
roofs  of  Fuchs  am  Buckel.  In  spite  of  the 
goggles  the  light  was  so  brilliant  that  when  I 
reached  the  familiar  goal  of  student  excursions, 
I  could  scarcely  read  the  C.  FUCHS,  RES- 
TAURATION,  painted  on  the  sign.  The  pro 
prietor  of  the  place  remembered  me,  was  able 
to  give  me  one  of  the  few  rooms  he  kept  at  the 
disposal  of  an  occasional  lodger,  and  having 
darkened  the  windows  and  rested  a  couple  of 
hours,  the  inflammation  in  my  eyes  seemed 
119 


By  the  III 


somewhat  relieved,  and  I  was  able  toward  sun 
set  to  get  down  to  the  garden. 

By  my  favorite  table,  at  the  extreme  end  of 
the  garden,  where  the  black  111  swept  close 
under  the  big  willow  that  shaded  my  usual  seat, 
there  was  a  woman.  She  was  seated  with  her 
back  to  me,  looking  up  the  river  toward  the 
west,  as  I  had  sat  a  dozen  times  before  starting 
back  to  Strasburg  in  the  cool  of  the  evening. 
There  was  a  broad  glare  upon  the  glassy  water, 
and  perhaps  that  was  why  I  did  not  notice  her 
until  I  was  just  upon  her.  That  end  table  had 
never  been  a  favorite  one  among  the  noisy 
patrons  of  the  Restauration,  and  I  had  rarely 
found  it  occupied  before.  I  remember  feeling 
somewhat  disappointed  as  I  took  a  chair  at  the 
next  table  and  rapped  for  the  waitress.  While 
she  was  getting  me  some  black  bread  and  Miin- 
ster  cheese,  a  cutlet  and  a  glass  of  thin  white  Alsa 
tian  wine,  the  blaze  died  off  from  the  water,  and 
I  pulled  my  chair  around  so  that  I,  too,  faced 
the  west.  The  woman  at  the  last  table  had 
apparently  finished  her  supper,  for  a  slender  jug 
of  seltzer  water  stood  there,  surrounded  by 
some  plates,  from  one  of  which  she  was  gather 
ing  bread-crumbs  to  toss  to  the  ducks  in  the 
river.  She  scarcely  turned  her  head  as  she 
snapped  the  tiny  morsels  into  the  current,  and 
120 


By  the  III 


I  remember  that  I  did  not  see  her  face.  She 
had  a  short  figure,  with  finely  modelled  shoul 
ders,  and  as  she  swept  the  last  crumbs  from  her 
plate  over  to  the  struggling,  quacking  creatures 
in  the  river,  I  noticed  that  her  black  dress  fitted 
her  extremely  well,  and  that  there  was  a  plain 
ring  upon  her  finger.  When  the  waitress 
brought  my  supper  the  lady  had  her  table 
cleared,  but  she  paid  nothing.  She  sat  there 
still,  and  no  one  came  to  join  her.  I  finished 
my  own  meal,  stretched  my  legs  out,  American 
fashion,  on  an  empty  chair  in  front  of  me, 
lighted  a  wretched  cigar,  and  watched  the  opal 
tints  in  the  west  lose  their  fire  and  turn  gray. 
It  was  nearly  dusk,  and  everyone  but  ourselves 
must  have  left  the  garden,  when  old  Fuchs 
made  the  circuit  of  the  empty  tables,  gathering 
up  here  and  there  a  beer-mug  that  had  been 
overlooked.  He  gave  me,  as  usual,  a  profes 
sional  "  Guten  Abend,  Hcrr  Doctor,'1'1  then 
stopped  a  moment  at  the  table  in  front  of  me, 
and  looking  down  at  the  black-dressed  woman, 
said  cheerily  :  "  Eh,  comment  fa  va  ?  Gchf  s 
guet?"  "  Ganz  guet"  she  answered,  in  a 
deep  full  voice,  with  a  marked  Alsatian  accent. 
"  Mais  comme  c*  est  charmant  id  !  "  she  added. 
Then,  in  a  still  lower  tone,  she  repeated, 
"  Ckarmtint  comme  toujours." 


By  the  III 


"  Tu  as  raison"  said  Fuchs,  with  a  satisfied 
shrug,  and  passed  on. 

The  evening  darkened  slowly,  and  still  she 
did  not  move.  Her  head  and  shoulders  were 
sharply  cut  against  the  last  pulsation  of  color  on 
the  horizon.  A  fog  began  to  creep  over  the  sur 
face  of  the  111.  I  was  at  the  end  of  the  second 
cigar.  Suddenly  she  rose  and  started  toward  the 
house  ;  in  passing  my  table  she  stumbled  against 
the  chair  that  upheld  my  awkwardly  extended 
feet.  "  Pardon,  monsieur,'1'1  she  murmured,  and 
before  I  could  touch  my  hat  and  mutter  an 
apology  she  had  disappeared. 

The  next  morning,  when  I  came  down  for 
my  coffee  to  the  main  room  of  the  Restaura- 
tion,  old  Fuchs  presented  me  to  her  as  his  niece, 
Mademoiselle  Aubepine.  Finding  that  I  was 
an  American  student,  she  addressed  me  frankly 
enough  in  German,  though  hesitating  now  and 
then  for  a  word,  and  betraying  the  Alsatian  ac 
cent  I  had  noticed  the  evening  before.  On  my 
asking  her  whether  she  knew  Strasburg  well, 
she  replied  simply  that  she  was  born  in  the 
Blauwolkengasse,  which  certainly,  as  I  vent 
ured  to  remark,  ought  to  have  given  her  an  un 
mistakable  Strasburg  birthright.  Thereupon 
Fuchs  interrupted  us  with  a  long-winded  dis 
quisition  upon  her  relationship  to  an  Alsatian 
122 


By  the  III 


politician  who,  during  the  preceding  winter, 
had  exhibited  himself  as  a  peculiarly  ardent 
member  of  the  Opposition  in  the  Reichstag. 
While  he  was  talking,  I  looked  at  her.  She 
was  a  woman  of  thirty,  apparently,  and  think 
ing  of  her  now,  after  ten  years,  I  do  not  re 
member  anything  about  her  that  was  really 
beautiful,  except  her  perfectly  developed  figure 
and  the  depth  and  purity  of  her  voice.  Her 
hazel  eyes  seemed  old,  and  her  hands  were  old ; 
she  talked  with  the  directness  and  unguarded- 
ness  of  a  married  woman,  looked  me  straight  in 
the  face,  gave  me  the  right  word  when  I  groped 
for  it — and  I  liked  her. 

That  afternoon  I  liked  her  still  better.  The 
imprudence  of  the  day  before  affected  my  eyes 
seriously,  and  I  was  obliged  to  keep  indoors. 
Mademoiselle  Aubepine,  after  a  whispered  dia 
logue  with  Fuchs,  came  up  to  me  as  I  was  sit 
ting  disconsolately  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  inn, 
and  asked  me  if  I  cared  to  hear  some  singing. 
Now  the  Merivales  were  never  musical,  but  I 
should  have  been  stupider  than  I  seemed  had  I 
not  eagerly  assented.  We  went  into  a  sort  of 
private  sitting-room  in  the  rear  of  the  high  seat 
where  Madame  Fuchs  presided  over  the  affairs 
of  the  Resf duration,  and  where  she  could  still 
have  us  under  her  eye  if  she  wished.  For  an 
123 


By  the  III 


hour  Mademoiselle  Aubepine  sang  ;  French 
chansons  mostly,  with  a  couple  of  Italian  oper 
atic  airs,  and  particularly  some  Polish  slumber 
songs,  to  French  words ;  strange  melodies 
which  I  did  not  understand,  but  which  better 
than  all  the  rest  suited  her  contralto  voice,  with 
its  somnolent  crooning  quality.  I  remember 
asking  her  if  she  did  not  sing  any  German 
songs,  and  she  gave  the  slightest  expression  to 
her  shoulders — she  was  seated  at  the  old  piano 
with  her  back  turned  to  me — and  said,  to  my 
wonderment,  that  she  did  not.  Soon  after  she 
stopped  singing.  She  would  listen  to  none  of 
my  awkward  thanks,  saying  simply  that  singing 
was  her  business.  I  was  puzzled  by  this,  until 
old  Fuchs  informed  me  confidentially,  that 
evening,  that  his  niece  was  a  grande  artiste  and 
could  go  upon  the  stage  if  she  wished.  As  it 
was,  she  was  only  a  singing-teacher  in  Nancy, 
but  pupils  came  to  her  from  Luneville,  and 
even  from  Metz,  and  once  there  had  been  talk 
of  her  singing  in  oratorio  at  Paris  ! 

Yes,  I  liked  Mademoiselle  Aubepine.  I  have 
never  been  in  love  with  a  woman,  as  I  think  I 
said  at  the  beginning,  and  it  is  not  my  own 
love-story  that  I  have  started  to  tell.  Perhaps 
it  will  not  even  be  called  a  love-story  at  all, 
but  yet  it  was  about  love  and  war. 
124 


By  the  III 


I  had  been  at  Fuchs  am  Buckel  ten  days,  and 
was  to  leave  on  the  morrow.  For  the  fact  that 
the  time  had  been  endurable,  I  was  indebted  to 
Mademoiselle  Aubepine.  It  was  she  who,  in 
the  long  forenoons,  under  the  great  horse-chest 
nut  trees  that  shaded  the  central  part  of  the 
garden,  had  read  Lamartine  and  Chateaubriand 
to  me  ;  these  works  had  been  recommended  by 
Madame  Fuchs,  and  indeed  they  are  not  so 
bad.  We  always  talked  French  after  that  first 
morning,  and  she  insisted  upon  calling  me 
Monsieur  Merveille,  that  being  as  near  to  Meri- 
vale  as  she  declared  she  could  ever  hope  to 
come.  Her  English  was  rudimentary,  without 
doubt.  For  days  I  tried  to  teach  her  one 
English  line — a  line  that  always  murmured  it 
self  gently  to  me  as  we  sat  at  the  end  of  the  gar 
den  under  the  willow  and  watched  the  111  move 
straight  toward  us  and  then  past,  scarcely  bend 
ing  the  rushes,  so  even  was  its  flow — 

"  Where  yon  broad  water  sweetly,  slowly  glides." 

At  last  she  could  say  it  all  except  "  glides," 
and  though  she  could  never  pronounce  that, 
her  attempt  resulted  in  a  word  of  her  own, 
which  was  to  me  as  musical.  Once  or  twice, 
accompanied  by  Madame  Fuchs,  we  walked  in 
the  deep  woods,  beyond  the  stone  bridge  under 
125 


By  the  III 


which  half  of  the  111  shot  on  its  sadden  plunge 
for  the  Rhine,  and  she  sang  each  time  in  the 
woodland  such  songs  as  I  have  never  heard 
since.  But  I  never  knew  why  she  was  a  sing 
ing-teacher,  and  why  she  wore  a  black  dress  and 
a  ring,  until  the  night  before  I  left. 

We  had  had  a  sort  of  family  supper  together, 
and  out  of  deference  to  my  choice  we  were  at 
the  end  table  of  the  garden.  There  were  four 
of  us  :  Monsieur  and  Madame  Fuchs,  Made 
moiselle  Aubepine,  and  I.  We  had  had  a  viva 
cious  time,  and  Fuchs  had  insisted  upon  opening 
a  bottle  of  Burgundy  in  honor  of  my  departure 
on  the  morrow.  He  toasted  "  America,"  and 
I  ventured,  in  response,  upon  a  toast  I  had 
never  dared  propose  to  an  Alsatian  :  "  Alsace- 
Lorraine."  This  was  in  1880,  but  all  three 
glanced  furtively  around  before  they  raised  the 
full  glasses  to  their  lips  and  drained  the  Bur 
gundy  to  the  last  drop.  No  one  spoke  ;  I  sus 
pected  that  I  had  been  indiscreet,  and  was  glad 
when  one  of  the  waitresses  called  Fuchs  away 
on  some  matter  of  business,  which  in  a  moment 
required  also  the  presence  of  his  wife.  Made 
moiselle  Aubepine  and  I  were  left  alone  at 
the  table  where  she  had  been  sitting  on  the 
night  I  came  to  Fuchs  am  Buckel.  The  sun 
now,  as  then,  gleamed  down  the  broad  polished 
126 


By  the  III 


surface  of  the  111  and  was  full  in  my  face.  She 
sat  at  my  left,  and  I,  with  eyes  still  too  weak  to 
look  up  the  river,  stared  down  at  the  table,  or, 
more  accurately,  at  the  blue  veins  of  her  hand 
as  she  toyed  with  the  empty  wine-glass,  and  at 
the  ring  upon  her  finger.  I  pitied  her,  vaguely, 
and  wished  I  had  not  toasted  Alsace-Lorraine, 
and  wished,  too — a  little — that  I  was  not  going 
away  the  next  morning.  And  I  said  something 
of  this,  clumsily  enough,  for  she  flushed,  and 
doubtless  thought  I  meant  something  other,  or 
something  more,  than  I  did.  At  any  rate  she 
stopped  me  with  a  "  Pardon,  Monsieur"  which 
were  the  first  words  she  had  ever  addressed  to 
me. 

"  Pardon  me,  Monsieur  Merveille,  but  you 
do  not  understand.  It  is  very  possible  that  you 
will  not  understand  ;  yet  I  shall  tell  you  because 
you  are  an  American  and  a  bon  camarade. 
But  one  should  not  speak  of  Alsace-Lorraine  any 
more.  She  is  dead.  '  Deutsche,  Deutsche  sind 
wir  alle. '  '  She  hummed  bitterly  the  opening 
line  of  a  German  patriotic  song. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  with  a  foolish  effort  at  sympa 
thetic  philosophy,  "  I  suppose  you  must  accept 
faces  as  they  are." 

''Accept?  "she  cried,  in  her  rapid,  impas 
sioned    French.       "Of  course.      That   is  the 
127 


By  the  III 


worst  of  it,  that  one  must  accept.  Those  are 
fools  at  Nancy — at  Paris — who  talk  of  the  re 
vanche.  We  know  better,  here  at  Strasburg. 
What  is  done,  is  done.  Look  at  those  walls  !  ' ' 
she  exclaimed,  with  an  unsuccessful  effort  to  re 
strain  her  growing  excitement.  Her  hazel  eyes 
were  changing  color,  and  following  their  gaze 
across  the  sedge-bordered  meadows  beyond  the 
111,  past  a  clump  of  woods  and  a  line  of  solemn 
poplars,  I  saw  the  long  low  parapet  of  Fort 
Fransecky. 

"  Do  you  know  why  that  fort  is  impregna 
ble?  "  she  demanded.  "It  is  because  its  walls 
are  laid  in  blood." 

I  felt  more  awkward  than  ever,  and  not 
knowing  anything  to  say,  snapped  some  pieces 
of  biscuit  over  to  the  ducks  in  the  111.  What 
was  there  for  me  to  say  ? 

"  Listen,  Monsieur  Merveille,"  she  went  on. 
"  You  have  no  right  to  speak  to  me  as  you  did. 
I  did  not  know  but  Madame  Fuchs  had  told 
you;  I  thought  you  knew  why  I  let  myself 
treat  you  en  camaradc. ' ' 

"  But  I  knew  nothing,"  I  answered,  hastily  ; 
"though  I  had  supposed" — I  hesitated,  my 
eyes  fixed  again  upon  her  ring. 

' '  That  I  had  been  fiancee  ?  It  is  true.  And 
he  is  dead.  It  is  very  true.  But  how  ?  Listen 


By  the  III 


to  me.  You  are  going  in  the  morning ;  I 
shall  not  see  you  again.  I  have  thought  of 
speaking  to  you  more  than  once,  because  I  be 
gan  to  fear  you  were  still  too  young  to  under 
stand  camaraderie.  You  are  twenty-five,  Mon 
sieur  Merveille  ?  ' ' 

I  nodded.  There  was  a  fierce  lightness  in 
her  tone,  and  I  dared  not  interrupt  her. 

"  Well,  I  am  thirty,  old  enough  to  say  to  you 
what  I  please.  Only,  I  wish  I  had  told  you  be 
fore — before  to-night. ' ' 

The  brightness  had  disappeared  from  the 
water  now,  and  I  looked  up  at  her  steadily. 
There  were  contracted  lines  upon  the  low 
forehead,  a  stern  set  expression  about  the 
mouth,  though  the  round  lips  were  trembling. 
I  had  never  seen  Mademoiselle  Aubepine  look 
at  once  so  old  and  so  young.  Her  eyes  flashed 
in  the  growing  twilight  like  the  eyes  of  a 
girl. 

"  I  was  only  twenty  that  August  of  1870,  and 
I  had  been  a  fiancee  six  months.  He  lived  in 
Kehl,  just  across  the  river  from  Strasburg,  you 
know,  but  in  Baden.  I  met  him  here,  at  Fuchs 
am  Buckel.  He  was  second  lieutenant  in  a  Ba 
den  regiment,  but  he  would  have  been  free  that 
autumn.  He  never  loved  the  Prussians — you 
know  how  it  was  in  Baden — but  he  went  with 
129 


By  the  111 


the  rest,  like  a  soldier.  I  saw  him  in  July,  not 
ten  days  before  Reichshoffen,  and  yet  we  sus 
pected  nothing ;  our  own  little  plans  were 
enough  for  us,  you  see. 

' '  I  was  in  the  country  when  the  war  was  de 
clared — out  beyond  Reichshoffen.  I  could  not 
get  back  to  Strasburg.  I  saw  the  last  of  the 
French  driven  down  the  road  behind  Elsass- 
hausen — I  have  seen — Mon  Dieu  !  what  have  I 
not  seen  in  those  ten  days  before  I  could  get 
through  the  lines  to  Nancy !  I  had  an  aunt 
there,  and,  can  you  imagine,  when  I  reached 
Nancy  at  last  it  was  August  i6th,  the  day  the 
Germans  occupied  the  town,  and  my  aunt  had 
left  for  Paris  the  night  before  !  What  could  I 
do  ?  I  went  straight  to  the  Red  Lion,  and  asked 
for  a  room.  They  said  there  were  no  rooms  ; 
there  were  fifty  Germans  there,  and  the  officers 
were  drinking  in  the  dining-room  and  the  land 
lady  was  hidden  under  her  bed.  I  do  not  know 
what  was  in  me  that  day ;  it  was  seven  o'clock, 
and  I  had  had  no  food  since  morning,  but  I 
was  strong  and  I  had  seen  so  much  that  I  had 
no  fear  left. 

"  '  Why  are  the  Germans  allowed  to  carouse 
in  the  dining-room  ?  '  I  asked.  '  Who  is  the 
commanding  officer  ?  ' 

"  '  The  Colonel  is  in  No.  14,'  blubbered  the 
130 


By  the  III 


— they  were  all  frightened  out  of  their 
senses — '  but  no  one  dares  disturb  him,  and  I 
do  not  speak  German.' 

"I  knew  he  lied  about  that,  but  I  said, 
'  Show  me  No.  14  !  I  speak  German.' 

"We  rapped  at  the  door.  The  Colonel 
came  in  his  stocking  feet  and  with  a  blanket 
wrapped  around  his  shoulders  ;  he  had  had  no 
rest  for  forty  hours. 

"  '  I  must  have  a  room  here  in  this  inn,'  said 
I,  '  and  I  must  sleep.  I  have  come  through  the 
lines.  Here  is  my  pass.  Your  officers  are 
drinking  in  the  dining-room  and  terrifying  the 
house.  Can  you  not  quiet  them  ?  ' 

"  He  looked  at  me  and  swallowed  a  curse. 
Then,  '  Sie  sind  ein  braves  Made  hen  J  he  cried, 
and  ran  downstairs,  and  the  gar f  on  and  I  were 
close  behind  him.  He  flung  open  the  dining- 
room  door.  There  were  three  young  officers 
there,  who  had  been  drinking  champagne  since 
four  o'clock.  They  too  had  had  nothing  to  eat 
for  a  whole  day.  The  empty  champagne  bottles 
were  piled  in  a  pyramid  upon  the  table,  and 
the  men  were  quarrelling.  Just  as  we  opened 
the  door  the  lieutenant  with  his  back  to  us — 
with  his  back  to  us — struck  his  fellow-officer  in 
the  face.  The  Colonel  saw  it  and  he  threw  the 
door  together  behind  him  and  thundered  out  an 


By  the  III 


order,  and  left  me  standing  outside.  I  did  not 
see  the  blow  given — it  was  the  garden  who  told 
me. 

"  I  do  not  remember  anything  more,  except 
a  great  drowsiness.  I  was  at  the  end.  I  be 
lieve  the  garden  showed  me  to  a  room  next  the 
landlady's  ;  I  am  not  sure  that  I  was  not  car 
ried  into  it.  But  there  I  fell  on  the  bed  and 
slept ;  I  did  not  even  lock  the  door.  I  did  not 
dream  until  just  before  I  woke,  and  then  I  saw 
Friedrich  sitting  in  a  cloud  of  smoke  with  his 
back  to  me. 

* '  The  gar f  on  was  pounding  on  the  door.  He 
put  his  head  in  and  saw  me  lying  there. 

"  'You  are  ill?  '   said  he. 

"  <  No,'  I  answered. 

"  '  Mademoiselle  can  have  breakfast.  The 
Badeners  are  gone  long  ago  ;  they  have  been 
transferred  to  the  Black  Dog.' 

"  <  The  Badeners  ?  '  I  cried. 

"  '  You  are  ill,  Mademoiselle,'  he  said. 

"  «  No  !    The  Badeners  ?  ' 

"  'Yes.  They  are  all  at  the  Black  Dog — 
except  the  one  with  his  back  to  us  ;  the  one  we 
saw  strike  his  friend.' 

"  '  And  he  ?  '     I  leaped  toward  the  door. 

"  '  They  have  just  shot  him.' 


132 


By  the  III 


"They  shot  him.  He  was  my  fiance,  and 
it  was  I  that  killed  him,  killed  him  in  the  war. 
Do  you  know  what  is  in  our  hearts  when  you 
toast  Alsace  -  Lorraine,  Monsieur  Merveille  ? 
What  can  you  know  about  1870?  You  were 
only  fourteen  years  old  !  But  I  know." 

Mademoiselle  Aubepine  had  risen,  and  was 
grasping  the  end  of  the  little  table  to  steady 
herself.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  be  closed. 

"  That  is  why  I  am  a  singing-teacher.  It  is 
all  over — forever — but  I  toast  Alsace-Lorraine. 
Come,  Monsieur  Merveille." 

She  filled  her  glass  and  my  own. 

"  To  the  dead,"  she  said,  in  a  hoarse  whis 
per  ;  "  Austrinken  !  " 

Then  she  turned,  gazed  at  me  a  moment  with 
eyes  from  which  the  horror  of  that  memory  had 
not  yet  disappeared,  and  with  a  low,  swift 
"Pardon,  Monsieur"  her  black  dress  brushed 
by  me  in  the  twilight,  and  she  was  gone. 

I  never  saw  Mademoiselle  Aubepine  again. 
When  I  left  in  the  morning,  she  had  not  come 
down  from  her  room,  and  I  thought  the  worthy 
innkeeper  and  his  wife  appeared  somewhat 
troubled  when  I  desired  them  to  present  my  re 
membrances  to  Mademoiselle.  Perhaps  they 
had  fancied,  between  themselves,  that  the  ac 
quaintance  of  the  young  people  would  not  end 

133 


By  the  III 


in  remembrances  merely.  I  do  not  know.  But 
I  know  that  all  the  way  back  to  Strasburg  the 
sight  of  the  blood  -  red  poppies  in  the  green 
wheat  made  me  shudder,  and  I  fancied  that 
everywhere  in  those  lovely  June  fields,  the  beau 
jardin,  as  Louis  XIV.  called  them  long  ago,  I 
could  trace  the  lines  of  battle-trenches  ;  and  the 
first  thing  I  saw  on  climbing  to  my  lodging  in 
the  Hennengasse  and  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow,  was  a  Baden  regiment  marching  by,  filling 
the  narrow  street  with  their  elastic  onward  mo 
tion,  while  the  sun  gleamed  on  their  helmets 
and  rifle-tips  and  yellow-skinned  knapsacks  in 
shifting  lines  and  blotches  of  scaly  gold,  and 
the  black  shadows  of  the  crooked  street  fell  in 
bars  across  the  glistening,  sinuous,  living  mass, 
until  it  seemed  like  the  undulation  of  a  serpent. 


i34 


Lombardy  Poplars 


LOMBARDY  POPLARS 

IT  was  very  cool  under  the  rock-maples  in 
front  of  the  Simpson  place,  and  the  Dea 
con,  trudging  up  from  the  lower  meadow  in 
the  dazzling  July  noon,  eyed  the  shade  irreso 
lutely.  He  was  trailing  a  rake  behind  him, 
and  in  front  of  him  was  a  panting  shepherd - 
dog. 

' '  Deacon  Simpson  !  ' '  called  out  a  voice  from 
one  of  the  hammocks.  "  I  want  to  ask  you 
some  more  questions,  Deacon  Simpson." 

The  opportunity  to  oblige  a  boarder  coin 
cided  remarkably  with  his  own  inclination  to 
sit  down,  and  the  Deacon  dropped  into  a  com 
fortable  position  at  the  foot  of  the  biggest  ma 
ple.  The  rake  was  balanced  upon  his  sharp 
old  knees,  and  his  blue  overalls  were  drawn 
high  above  his  ankles.  He  fanned  himself 
slowly  with  his  broad,  green-lined  linen  hat. 

"  Yis,  ma'am?"  he  inquired  benevolently. 
"Want  to  ask  about  another  farm,  don't  ye, 
Miss  Hertford?" 

i37 


Lombardy  Poplars 


The  trim  little  woman  in  the  hammock  sat 
up  straight.  "  How  do  you  know  I  do  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  women  folks  said  you  was  off  kind 
o'  prospectin'  round.  Ruther  hot,  wa'n't  it?  " 

"Oh,  yes;  I  didn't  mind.  Didn't  you 
tell  me,  Deacon  Simpson,  that  the  Dickinson 
place  could  be  bought  for  four  hundred  dol 
lars?" 

"Wai,  I  guess  it  could,"  the  Deacon  as 
sented,  reflectively.  "  Jest  look  at  that  dog's 
tongue  run  out  !  Swelterin',  ain't  it,  Jocko  ?  " 

But  the  Boston  school-teacher  was  persistent. 
"  And  you  said  that  other  farm  could  be  had 
for  three  hundred  and  fifty?  The  one  where 
the  barns  are  blown  over." 

"  Wai,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  three  hundred 
'n'  fifty  in  cash  would  come  pretty  near  the 
sellin'  price  now.  Mis'  Simpson  was  raised  on 
that  farm." 

' '  Really  ?  I  should  think  you  would  wish 
to  keep  it  in  the  family,  Deacon.  But  I've 
found  another  one  that  I  like  better  than  either 
of  those. ' ' 

"  You  don't  say  !  Ain't  bought  it  yet,  have 
ye?  Set  still,  Jocko  !  "  He  tapped  the  dog's 
back  with  the  rakestale. 

"  No,  I  haven't  bought  it,"  said  Miss  Hert 
ford,  "  but  I  really  think  I  shall,  if  I  can  find 

138 


Lombard?  Poplars 


the  owner.  Who  is  he?  It's  a  story-and-half 
house  with  a  great  big  chimney,  about  three- 
quarters  of  a  mile  from  here  on  the  county 
road.  There's  the  loveliest  old  orchard  back 
of  the  house,  and  a  brook  that  runs  through 
a  stone-arched  bridge,  and  a  great  swamp  across 
the  road,  full  of  red-winged  blackbirds.  Do 
you  suppose  there  are  snakes  in  that  swamp, 
Deacon  ?  ' ' 

The  prudent  entertainer  of  summer  boarders 
shook  his  head.  "I  never  saw  any  there. 
Pretty  scarce  round  here,  anyway."  He 
thoughtfully  omitted  to  mention  the  "  check'id 
adder  "  he  had  killed  that  morning  in  the  lower 
meadow.  "  I  dunno's  I  know  which  place 
you  mean,"  he  went  on.  ''Is  there  an  old 
shed  jest  across  the  road  ?  ' ' 

"  No,  it's  all  open  ground  there,  and  from 
the  doorstep  you  can  look  clear  across  the 
swamp  and  up  to  Oak  Ridge,  and  at  the  right 
you  can  see  all  the  hills  beyond  the  Deerfield, 
and  Greylock  back  of  those.  And  there  are 
two  old  Lombardy  poplars  in  front  of  the 
house. ' ' 

"  Lumbuddy  popples,  eh  ?  I  want  to  know 
if  you've  ben  clear  up  to  Popple  Hill !  Wa'n't 
it  awful  hot  for  ye  ?  I  guess  you  must  be  talkin' 
about  the  old  Jarvis  place. ' ' 


Lombard?  Poplars 


"  The  Jarvis  place,"  Miss  Hertford  repeated, 
slowly.  She  rather  liked  the  name.  "  Do  you 
suppose  it's  for  sale  ?  It  is  entirely  deserted. 
I  went  up  and  looked  through  the  windows. 
Who  is  the  owner  ?  ' ' 

"  They  ain't  a  Jarvis  in  town,"  said  the  Dea 
con,  deliberately.  "  Old  Jedidiah  Jarvis  is 
dead,  and  Monroe  Jarvis,  he's  dead.  Young 
Frank  Jarvis' s  wife  died,  and  he  went  out  West 
somewhere,  and  they  say  he's  makin'  money. 
He  must  own  that  place.  He  gets  back  here 
most  every  summer,  'n'  stays  jest  about  long 
enough  to  say  '  How  d'ye  do?  '  and  then  he's 
off  again.  It  was  his  grandfather  that  set  out 
those  popples  ;  brought  the  shoots  all  the  way 
from  Philadelphy  sewed  into  the  linin'  of  his 
coat.  Kind  o'  curis  about  Lumbuddy  popples 
now  ;  they  do  say  that  when  you  plant  'em  in 
front  of  a  house,  the  family  sort  o'  dies  out 
after  a  while.  Last  summer  they  was  a  profes 
sor  up  here  who  was  tellin'  me  that  popples 
hadn't  any  sect,  or  were  all  one  sect,  I  forget 
"  which.  That  would  make  all  the  Lumbuddy 
popples  in  the  £/hited  States  jest  the  same  age, 
ye  see,  all  came  by  shoots  from  the  fust  one 
ever  brought  over  from  furrin  parts.  No  won 
der  they  get  kind  o'  old  'n'  run  down,  eh  ?  " 

Miss  Hertford  made  no  response  to  the  Dea- 
140 


Lombard?  Poplars 


con's  botanical  fancies.  "  Do  you  suppose  this 
Frank  Jarvis  would  like  to  sell  ?  ' '  she  inter 
rupted.  "  How  much  land  is  there?  " 

But  before  the  Deacon  could  finish  his  com 
putation  of  wood-lot  and  mowing  and  pasture- 
land,  the  dinner-bell  jingled  viciously,  and 
Miss  Hertford,  like  a  model  boarder,  aban 
doned  her  inquiries. 

All  the  afternoon,  however,  she  sat  beneath 
the  maples,  meditating  upon  the  Jarvis  place. 
She  even  went  so  far  as  to  write  Madame 
Michel,  the  accomplished  instructor  of  French 
at  the  Reverdy  School,  and  her  most  intimate 
friend,  that  the  deserted  farm-house  they  had 
been  in  search  of  was  found.  It  only  remained 
to  communicate  with  the  owner  and  to  make 
the  necessary  legal  transfer ;  then  they  would 
be  emancipated  forever  from  Mis'  Simpson's 
buckwheat- cake  breakfasts,  and  the  conversation 
of  Mis'  Simpson's  other  boarders,  while  still 
retaining  all  that  was  admirable  in  South 
Broughton  as  a  summer  home. 

After  tea  she  slipped  out  of  the  house,  and 
crossing  the  Deacon's  home  pastures,  climbed 
over  the  stone  wall  into  the  county  road.  In 
twenty  minutes  —  not  counting  the  time  lost 
in  picking  red  raspberries  by  the  roadside  and 
poking  at  the  purple  milk- weed  blossoms  with 
141 


Lombardy  Poplars 


the  tip  of  her  parasol — she  reached  Poplar  Hill, 
and  stood  again  on  the  stone  doorstep  of  the 
Jarvis  place.  The  poplars  rustled  gently  in  the 
south  wind  ;  under  the  arch  of  the  stone  bridge 
the  brook  gurgled  placidly ;  in  the  glen  that 
bordered  the  swamp  a  wood-thrush  was  singing. 
Oak  Ridge  was  still  aglow  with  sunlight,  but 
the  wide  intervales  were  already  growing  damp 
and  cool,  and  the  hills  beyond  the  Deerfield 
were  a  deep,  dull  blue.  It  was  lonely  here,  but 
it  was  the  loneliness  of  peace. 

Miss  Hertford  walked  around  the  house 
twice,  and  then  she  tried  the  windows.  The 
one  nearest  the  front  door  was  loosely  fastened. 
She  raised  it  without  much  difficulty,  and 
profiting  by  her  previous  experience  in  explor 
ing  deserted  farm-houses,  reached  around  and 
unbolted  the  door.  Glancing  up  and  down 
the  grass-grown  road,  she  pulled  the  door  open 
and  slipped  in,  closing  it  after  her.  At  the 
right  was  the  living-room,  with  a  large  marble- 
sided  fireplace,  and  an  old-fashioned  brick  oven 
built  into  the  chimney.  Miss  Hertford  peered 
into  the  oven  delightedly ;  she  approved  of 
every  feature  of  the  room,  down  to  the  round 
cat-hole  in  the  foot-board  by  the  chimney  cor 
ner.  This  would  be  such  a  convenience  for 
Madame  Michel's  Alexis,  when  they  three 
142 


Lombardy  Poplars 


should  begin  house-keeping  !  On  the  left  of  the 
door  was  the  parlor,  and  a  bedroom  leading  from 
it.  There  was  a  kitchen  and  woodshed  in  the 
rear.  Miss  Hertford  picked  her  way  daintily 
over  the  whole  house,  upstairs  and  down  ;  she 
was  by  this  time  an  adept  in  determining  the 
soundness  of  timbers  and  the  quality  of  floors, 
and  in  distinguishing  the  properly  musty  odor 
of  a  long-closed  house  from  the  mouldiness  that 
comes  from  a  damp  cellar.  The  Jarvis  house 
stood  all  tests  triumphantly.  It  was  perfectly 
clean  and  utterly  empty  ;  there  were  no  relics 
of  wayfaring  tramps  or  of  haymakers'  lunches, 
not  even  a  rusty  rat-trap  nor  an  ancient  almanac. 
The  only  article  of  any  kind  to  be  found  in  the 
house  was  a  glass  tumbler  on  the  shelf  of  the 
bedroom,  holding  a  few  withered  flowers,  so 
shrivelled  as  to  be  unrecognizable. 

While  Miss  Hertford  stood  looking  at  this  old 
bouquet,  she  felt  for  the  first  time  solitary  and 
ill  at  ease  in  the  deserted  house.  It  was  grow 
ing  dark,  too,  and  she  went  out  somewhat  has 
tily,  bolting  the  door  and  closing  the  window. 
The  light  was  gone  from  Oak  Ridge  now ;  fire 
flies  were  sparkling  in  the  swamp;  the  wind 
had  risen,  and  the  Lombardy  poplars  were 
creaking  mournfully.  They  seemed  unnatu 
rally  tall  and  rigid,  so  gaunt  and  barren  in  the 

H3 


Lombardy  Poplars 


dusk,  that  Miss  Hertford  was  reminded  involun 
tarily  of  Deacon  Simpson's  comment;  there 
was  something  pathetic  in  their  a-sexualism, 
their  sterile  life  which,  nevertheless,  outlived 
the  human  generations  that  sprang  up  and 
perished  upon  this  infertile  New  England  soil. 
Miss  Hertford  shivered  a  little.  She  was  thirty  - 
one  years  old,  and  alone  in  the  world.  In  a 
few  years  she  would  be  as  old  as  Madame 
Michel — an  old  woman — the  old  story — so  it 
would  go.  She  wished  Madame  Michel,  that 
cheery  philosopher,  \vere  with  her  now,  and 
she  walked  rapidly  down  the  darkening  road 
toward  Deacon  Simpson's. 

But  the  next  day  this  mood  had  passed.  She 
ascertained  Frank  Jar  vis's  Nevada  address  from 
the  postmistress — he  was  in  the  lumber  business, 
apparently — and  directed  to  him  what  she  con 
sidered  a  most  business-like  offer  for  the  aban 
doned  farm.  Then  she  resigned  herself  to  two 
weeks'  waiting,  spending  her  mornings  in  pre 
paring  her  new  lectures  in  psychology  for  the 
Reverdy  School,  and  devoting  most  of  her 
afternoons  to  the  Jarvis  place.  One  day,  in 
rambling  through  the  orchard  above  the  house, 
she  found  in  the  upper  corner,  under  the  shad 
ow  of  a  group  of  blighted  plum-trees,  a  soli 
tary  grave.  The  burying  -  ground  at  South 
144 


Lombardy  Poplars 


Broughton  was  two  miles  away,  and  she  was 
familiar  enough  with  the  isolated  group  of 
headstones  that  was  to  be  seen  near  almost 
every  farm,  yet  this  discovery  affected  her  in  a 
way  she  could  scarcely  explain  to  herself.  It 
seemed  almost  like  sacrilege  to  offer  to  buy  the 
place  now.  The  gravestone  bore  a  woman's 
name — Mary  Rood  Jarvis  ;  the  birth-year  was 
just  that  of  Mary  Hertford,  and  the  woman, 
dying  at  twenty-one,  had  been  dead  ten  years. 
The  grass  was  high  around  the  stone,  and  Miss 
Hertford  plucked  it  away  a  little,  and  laid  some 
daisies  there.  She  would  have  liked  to  ask 
Deacon  Simpson  about  this  Mary  Rood,  wife 
of  Frank  Jarvis,  but  she  shrank  from  doing  so. 

Two  or  three  afternoons  later  she  had  a 
fright.  She  had  walked  up  to  the  Jarvis  place 
as  usual,  and  had  taken  a  fancy  to  go  over  the 
house  again.  As  it  happened,  the  last  room 
she  entered  was  the  tiny  bedroom,  and  there  in 
the  glass  upon  the  shelf,  instead  of  the  withered 
bouquet  of  last  year's  blooming,  was  a  handful 
of  fresh  iris  flowers,  such  as  grew  by  the  brook 
below  the  house.  For  an  instant  her  heart 
stopped  beating  ;  then,  as  befitted  a  corre 
sponding  member  of  the  Society  for  Psychical 
Research,  she  pressed  her  hands  to  her  temples, 
steadied  herself,  and  went  up  to  them,  to 

H5 


Lombardy  Poplars 


test  the  class  of  illusory  phenomena  to  which 
they  belonged.  But  they  were  no  phantasm ; 
the  blue  petals  were  crisp  and  odorous,  and, 
caught  in  the  hairy  heart  of  one  flower,  an 
insect  was  still  struggling  to  get  free.  Having 
done  her  professional  duty,  Miss  Hertford  fled, 
like  a  well-bred  woman  who  has  unwittingly 
found  herself  guilty  of  intrusion.  Fresh  flow 
ers  in  that  deserted  chamber !  Who  could 
have  brought  them  there  ? 

As  Miss  Hertford  was  hurriedly  closing  the 
window,  after  having  bolted  the  door  on  the 
inside,  a  man  came  around  the  corner  of  the 
house.  He  was  whittling  aimlessly  at  a  branch 
of  lilac,  and  Miss  Hertford,  from  over  her 
shoulder,  caught  the  gleam  of  the  open  knife. 
But  she  shut  the  window  as  calmly  as  she  could, 
and  faced  him.  He  shifted  the  knife  to  his 
left  hand,  and  took  off  his  gray  felt  hat  as 
politely  as  was  consistent  with  utter  astonish 
ment.  This  slender,  erect  little  woman,  in 
blue  outing-suit  and  round  sailor-hat,  with  hon 
est  eyes  and  wide  forehead,  a  sketching-pad 
and  novel  in  her  hands,  was  coolly  making  her 
exit  from  his  own  house  ! 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  he  said,  dryly.  "  My 
name  is  Jarvis. ' ' 

Thereupon  Miss  Hertford,  standing  on  the 

146 


Lombardy  Poplars 


cracked  marble  doorstep,  felt  her  face  grow 
intolerably  hot. 

"Mr.  Jarvis,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  ex 
claimed.  "  I — I  feel  like  a  thief." 

"  Oh,  you  needn't,"  he  replied.  He  had  by 
this  time  classified  her  as  a  summer  boarder. 
"  There  isn't  much  left  to  steal." 

' '  No, ' '  she  said,  ' '  nothing  but ' '  Miss 

Hertford  stopped  awkwardly.  She  was  think 
ing  of  the  blue  iris. 

"  I  see  you  have  learned  how  to  get  in,"  he 
added,  as  if  trying  to  place  her  at  her  ease.  "  I 
thought  I  was  the  only  one  who  understood  the 
trick  of  that  window." 

"  Please  forgive  me,"  she  replied,  abjectly. 
"  Did  you  receive  my  letter  ?  " 

He  stared  at  her.  For  a  man  who  had  been 
ten  months  in  a  lumber  camp,  Miss  Hertford 
was  a  pleasant  person  to  contemplate,  and  he 
made  the  most  of  his  opportunity. 

"  I  wrote  you  in  Nevada  some  ten  days  ago," 
she  explained.  "  I  wanted — that  is,  Madame 
Michel  and  I  wanted — to  know  whether  you 
would  sell  this  property.  We  were  very  anxious 
to  buy  it  if  we  could — and  that,  Mr.  Jarvis,  is 
my  only  excuse,  and  I  know  it  is  a  wretched 
one,  for  taking  such  liberties  here. ' ' 

Her  apology  seemed  singularly  unsatisfactory 

147 


Lombard?  Poplars 


to  herself.  He  was  so  different  from  the  lum 
berman  to  whom  she  had  supposed  she  was 
writing.  He  was  younger,  for  one  thing — not 
yet  thirty-five.  His  hands  and  face  were  deep 
ly  tanned,  and  his  tawny  mustache  was  bleached 
by  the  sun.  The  spare,  sinewy  figure  was  clad 
in  a  business-suit  of  the  best  San  Francisco 
fashion.  There  was  something  distinguished 
about  his  slightly  bald  head,  when  he  had  taken 
off  his  hat.  After  all,  was  he  the  lumberman  ? 

"This  is  Mr.  Frank  Jarvis,  isn't  it?"  she 
inquired,  in  perplexity. 

"Yes,"  he  smiled.  "  But  I  did  not  receive 
your  letter  ;  I  must  have  started  East  too  soon. 
You  have  the  advantage  of  me,  Miss ?  ' ' 

"Miss  Hertford.  It  is  you,  though,  who 
have  the  advantage  of  me,"  she  replied,  play 
ing  upon  his  old-fashioned  phrase.  "  Will  you 
be  generous  and  pardon  the  intrusion?  I 
really  had  wished  to  buy  the  place  very  much." 
Miss  Hertford's  innocent  fancies  about  the  joy 
of  the  Westerner  when  he  should  receive  her 
munificent  offer  of  four  hundred  and  seventy- 
five  dollars  for  the  farm  and  buildings  had  been 
suddenly  dispelled. 

"I  don't  think  the  place  is  for  sale,"  he 
said,  quietly. 

Miss  Hertford  opened    her  red  parasol,   in 

148 


Lombardy  Poplars 


preparation  for  the  hot  walk  back  to  Deacon 
Simpson's.  Her  dream  of  proprietorship  was 
over.  Frank  Jarvis  threw  away  his  branch  of 
lilac  and  pocketed  his  penknife. 

"  Mayn't  I  walk  down  with  you  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  You  are  staying  at  the  village,  I  suppose  ?  " 

1 '  At  Deacon  Simpson's."  She  surrendered 
her  parasol  to  him  helplessly. 

"I'm  going  to  stop  there  to-night.  The 
hotel  is  burned  down,  I  believe." 

"Yes." 

As  they  passed  under  the  shadow  of  the  Lom 
bardy  poplars,  Jarvis  halted  a  moment  and  took 
a  survey  of  the  house.  "  It's  a  pretty  spot," 
he  said,  slowly,  "about  the  prettiest  I  ever 
saw  anywhere.  I  always  mean  to  get  back  here 
every  summer,  and  see  that  the  grass  is  mowed 
round  the  doorstep,  and — up  on  the  hill.  I 
always  open  that  window,  too,  and  go  inside. 
We  began  housekeeping  in  this  old  place,  be 
gan — and  ended."  He  stopped  abruptly.  The 
teacher  of  psychology  pitied  him. 

"  Those  poplars  don't  look  a  day  older  than 
they  did  ten  years  ago,  and  they  were  old 
scraggy  trees  then,"  he  continued,  as  they 
moved  on  again.  "I  don't  know  but  they 
ought  to  come  down.  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

Miss    Hertford   expressed    herself  somewhat 
149 


Lombardy  Poplars 


vaguely  upon  this  point,  and  they  started  down 
the  county  road  together,  in  the  hot  after 
noon  sun. 

Frank  Jar  vis  stayed  ten  days  at  the  Deacon's, 
waiting,  as  he  said,  for  business  letters.  Mis' 
Simpson  affirmed  after  the  first  day  that  he  was 
"sidlin'  up"  to  Mary  Hertford.  But  the  "  Pro 
fessor,"  as  Miss  Hertford  was  commonly  called 
at  Simpson's,  in  recognition  of  the  fact  that 
the  occupant  of  the  chair  of  Mental  and  Moral 
Science  at  the  Reverdy  School  was  no  ordinary 
schoolma'am,  was  herself  not  only  oblivious  of 
this  rumor,  but  unaware  of  any  grounds  for  it. 
She  continued  to  work  away  steadily  in  the 
mornings :  she  finished  her  lecture  on  Con 
sciousness  of  Self,  recast  her  old  notes  upon 
Hypnotism,  and  began  to  take  new  ones  on  the 
Psychology  of  Dreams.  She  was  scrupulously 
courteous  to  Mr.  Jar  vis,  as  she  endeavored  to 
be  toward  all  her  fellow-boarders,  but  Madame 
Michel,  who  had  just  joined  her,  really  did  the 
lion's  share  of  entertaining  the  lumberman.  He 
would  sit  by  the  Madame' s  hammock  under  the 
maples  for  hours  at  a  time,  amused  by  her  social 
observations  and  occupying  himself  pleasantly 
by  stimulating  her  romantic  appetite  for  stories 
of  Western  life.  His  experiences  were  always 
150 


LombarJy  Poplars 


related  in  a  slow,  unvaried  tone,  with  a  mixt 
ure  of  New  England  reticence  and  Nevada  pict- 
uresqueness  of  phrase  that  Madame  Michel 
found  extremely  fascinating.  She  was  never 
tired  of  talking  to  Miss  Hertford  about  it,  and 
sometimes,  when  Mr.  Jarvis  joined  the  two 
ladies  on  their  afternoon  walks,  Miss  Hertford 
seemed  to  enjoy  his  companionship.  He  was  a 
new  species,  and  she  analyzed  him  with  a  de 
corous  interest.  At  least,  that  was  the  only 
attitude  toward  him  that,  in  Madame  Michel's 
opinion  and  to  her  disappointment,  Miss  Hert 
ford  ever  seemed  to  take. 

Yet  it  was  Deacon  Simpson,  after  all,  who 
seemed  to  get  the  most  unalloyed  delight  from 
Frank  Jarvis's  society.  That  a  South  Brough- 
ton  boy,  whose  home  had  been  broken  up  by 
his  wife's  death  when  he  was  twenty-two,  should 
knock  around  half-a-dozen  States  and  fail  in  as 
many  enterprises,  and  finally  end  by  organizing 
a  lumber  and  fluming  company,  buying  a  tract 
of  pine  land  and  a  wrecked  railroad  leading  to 
it,  hiring  huge  squads  of  Chinamen  to  get  out 
the  timber,  then  shipping  it  into  Virginia  City 
to  be  used  for  braces  in  the  mines,  and  all  at 
a  clear  profit  —  as  South  Broughton  people 
affirmed — of  forty  or  fifty  thousand  dollars  a 
year,  seemed  to  the  Deacon  little  less  than  a 


Lombardy  Poplars 


miracle.  After  supper,  when  the  boarders  lin 
gered  for  a  while  on  the  front  piazza,  Deacon 
Simpson  invariably  endeavored  to  "  dror  Frank 
Jarvis  out,"  and  prided  himself  upon  his  skill 
in  accomplishing  his  purpose.  No  less  than 
three  times,  to  as  many  different  groups,  was 
Jarvis  forced  to  relate  the  one  really  thrill 
ing  incident  of  his  career'  as  superintendent 
of  the  lumber  company,  which  had  occurred 
when  a  horde  of  angry  Chinamen,  led  on  by 
a  drunken  overseer,  had  attempted  to  take 
summary  vengeance  on  the  superintendent  for 
his  vigor  in  breaking  up  gambling  in  the 
logging  camp.  Jarvis  told  his  story  quietly 
enough,  but  it  made  him  a  hero  in  the  Dea 
con's  eyes,  and  even  Miss  Hertford  acknowl 
edged  to  Madame  Michel  afterward,  that  there 
was  something  fine  in  the  man's  courage  at 
his  lonely  post,  and  something  very  admirable 
in  his  modesty. 

When  Jarvis  went  away,  he  bade  Miss  Hert 
ford  good-by  under  the  maple-trees,  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Mis'  Simpson,  who 
was  watching  them  from  behind  the  pantry 
blinds,  in  the  L  part,  was  profoundly  disap 
pointed  at  this  prosaic  leave-taking.  They 
stood  for  several  minutes  together,  Miss  Hert 
ford's  hammock  between  them.  Madame  Mi- 
152 


Lombardy  Poplars 


chel  had  gone  to  her  room  in  search  of  an  auto 
graph-album,  for  Jar  vis's  signature,  but  it  was 
undoubtedly  at  the  very  bottom  of  her  trunk, 
since  she  delayed  her  return.  The  stage-driver 
grew  impatient,  and  finally  Jarvis  was  obliged 
to  leave  his  regards  for  Madame  Michel  with 
Miss  Hertford.  Then  he  put  out  his  hand. 
He  had  never  before  referred  to  the  circum 
stances  of  their  first  meeting. 

' '  It  was  a  good  moment  for  me  when  I  saw 
you  come  out  of  my  o\vn  door,"  he  said.  "  It 
ought  not  to  be  the  last  time,  ought  it  ?  Good- 
by,  Mary." 

Was  it  embarrassment,  or  audacity,  that  made 
him  say  that?  Miss  Hertford  lay  awake  all 
night  trying  to  decide.  Once  or  twice  she 
comforted  herself  by  imagining  that  he  was  too 
embarrassed  to  be  aware  of  what  he  was  saying, 
only  to  be  alarmed  by  the  reflection  that  he 
certainly  did  not  seem  embarrassed  in  the  least. 
His  gray  eyes  had  looked  fixedly  at  her — so 
fixedly,  indeed,  that  she  was  conscious  that  her 
own  had  failed  to  meet  them.  Miss  Hertford 
sat  down  to  her  books  the  next  morning  in  a 
state  of  singular  helplessness,  considering  that 
she  was  an  expert  in  mental  processes  and  had 
just  copied  her  lecture  on  Consciousness  of  Self, 
and  that  she  wanted  nothing  in  life  so  much  as 

153 


Lombard?  Poplars 


the  opportunity  to  take  a  Ph.D.  in  Psychology 
at  Leipsic. 

One  dreary  evening  in  the  following  Febru 
ary  she  had  a  letter  from  Frank  Jar  vis.  The 
yellow  envelope,  with  the  name  of  the  lumber 
and  fluming  company  stamped  upon  it,  had 
been  directed  to  her  in  care  of  Deacon  Simp 
son.  It  had  been  two  or  three  weeks  upon  the 
way,  and  she  could  not  help  imagining  that 
Mis'  Simpson  had  opened  it  over  a  tea-kettle 
and  had  cunningly  stiitk  it  together  again. 
There  was  nevertheless  nothing  in  the  letter 
which  Mis'  Simpson  might  not  have  been  per 
mitted  to  read.  Its  general  theme  was  the 
severity  of  the  winter  at  the  logging  camp. 
The  stage-road  had  been  broken  through  that 
day  for  the  first  time  in  six  weeks,  and  the 
superintendent's  only  connection  with  the  outer 
world  had  been  his  telephone  wire  to  Checker- 
berry  City.  He  had  pushed  over  the  Divide  a 
couple  of  times  on  snow-shoes  for  his  mail,  but 
the  drifts  were  so  soft  that  it  was  risky  work. 
Five  of  his  wood-choppers  had  been  lost  in 
the  snow  since  Christmas  Eve,  and  but  one 
body  had  been  found,  though  he  had  been  out 
for  days,  following  every  coyote  track  for  miles 
around.  His  men  were  getting  restless ;  some 


Lombardy  Poplars 


rascal  had  sledded  a  cask  of  whiskey  over  the 
Divide,  and  he  could  not  discover  in  which 
cabin  it  was  hidden.  The  Chinamen  were 
sulky.  He  had  had  to  break  up  their  gam 
bling  games  again.  It  was  rather  lonesome 
business  keeping  the  whip  -  hand  over  three 
hundred  men,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it. 
He  was  thankful  enough  to  have  his  telephone  ; 
he  did  not  see  how  he  could  have  held  out 
without  that.  But  now  that  the  stage-route 
was  open  once  more,  all  would  go  well,  he 
hoped.  Indeed,  he  thought  he  could  get  down 
to  San  Francisco  in  two  or  three  days  more, 
and  in  that  case,  business  might  summon  him 
East.  If  he  came,  might  he  call  upon  her  ? 
It  would  give  him  great  pleasure — the  very 
greatest  pleasure — to  do  so.  And  he  sent  his 
regards  to  Madame  Michel. 

Miss  Hertford  did  not  deliver  this  last 
message  to  her  friend.  Madame  Michel  had 
teased  her  about  Mr.  Jarvis  all  the  autumn,  but 
since  then  had  not  mentioned  his  name.  The 
northeast  wind  shook  savagely  at  the  window  of 
Miss  Hertford's  room,  on  the  third  floor  of  the 
Reverdy  School,  while  she  read  and  re-read 
Frank  Jarvis's  letter.  It  was  not  a  love-letter 
— not  a  love-letter — she  kept  repeating  to  her 
self,  and  yet  she  locked  the  door  of  the  little 


Lombardy  Poplars 


room  as  if  it  were.  The  solitariness  of  his  life 
came  home  to  her  as  never  before.  She  pict 
ured  the  winter  camp  in  Nevada,  with  that  isola 
ted  figure  in  the  midst  of  it,  toiling  as  gallantly 
as  if  life's  best  trophies  were  still  to  be  gained, 
bravely  forgetful  of  the  early  wreck  his  happi 
ness  had  suffered.  She  pitied  him,  as  she  had 
not  pitied  him  since  the  afternoon  in  South 
Broughton,  when  he  had  spoken  of  his  early 
home,  and  the  girl-wife  resting  in  that  upland 
orchard.  He  must  be  terribly  lonely  out  there  ; 
she  believed  she  would  write  him  some  day  a 
cheery  letter.  There  would  be  no  harm  in  that. 
She  herself  knew  what  it  was  to  be  lonely  ;  in 
deed,  she  was  very  lonely  to-night,  with  the 
wind  roaring  around  the  Reverdy  building  and 
piling  the  wet  snow  against  the  panes,  while  her 
one  intimate  friend,  Madame  Michel,  sat  in  her 
cosey  parlor  on  the  other  floor,  before  an  open 
fire,  stroking  Alexis's  back.  Poor  Madame 
Michel ;  she  too  had  had  her  glimpse  of  happi 
ness,  but  that  was  long  ago,  and  now  she  made 
the  best  of  what  was  left  to  her.  So  it  went  in 
this  world — one  person  here,  another  there — 
the  figures  in  the  pattern  do  not  match — if  only 
the  kaleidoscope  were  shaken  a  little  differently  ! 
Then  her  breath  came  quick.  What  should 
she  say  to  Frank  Jar  vis  if  he  called  ?  She  felt 
156 


Lombard?  Poplars 


sure  he  would  come  ;  she  knew  why  he  was 
coming ;  it  was  because  he  loved  her.  She 
was  sure  of  it  the  moment  she  saw  that  yellow 
envelope.  What  could  she  say  ?  Louder  swept 
the  storm  around  her  corner  of  the  Reverdy 
School ;  higher  mounted  the  snow  upon  the 
window-sill.  It  wrought  nervously  upon  her. 
Her  mind  failed  to  obey  orders — a  sort  of  terror 
took  possession  of  her.  When  she  went  to  bed, 
at  last,  she  turned  back,  after  extinguishing  the 
gas,  and  taking  Jarvis's  letter,  put  it  under  her 
pillow. 

Yet  the  school-teaching  consciousness  is  slow 
to  lose  its  hold,  and  even  while  her  hand  rested 
upon  his  letter,  she  thought  of  her  morrow's 
work.  The  psychology  class,  now  in  wild  en 
thusiasm  over  the  phenomena  of  dreaming,  had 
all  agreed  to  think  of  some  object  before  fall 
ing  asleep,  and  to  report  their  dreams  in  the 
morning.  The  teacher,  too,  had  promised  to 
experiment  and  report.  Too  tired  to  direct  the 
stream  of  her  own  thought,  it  now  bore  her 
back  out  of  the  February  storm  to  summer  days 
in  South  Broughton,  and  to  long  afternoons 
spent  at  the  Jarvis  place.  The  shadow  of  the 
Lombardy  poplars  still  fell  across  the  marble 
doorrtep  —  the  tall,  homely  trees,  patiently 
watching  the  inhabitants  of  the  Jarvis  place 

157 


Lombardy  Poplars 


born  and  married  and  buried,  secure  in  their 
own  self-perpetuated,  sexless  life.  Two  deso 
late  trees  on  a  lonely  hilltop,  isolated  from  all 
their  kind,  but  peaceful  none  the  less — their 
leaves  whitening  in  this  gentle  July  wind — such 
quiet  old  Lombardy  poplars — so — quiet —  And 
Miss  Hertford  was  asleep. 

Toward  morning  she  awoke  from  a  dream  so 
vivid  that  conscious  life  seemed  pale  when  con 
fronted  with  it.  A  hot  wind  was  blowing  over 
fields  full  of  ripening  grass  and  ox-eyed  daisies, 
over  a  swamp  where  sweet  -  flag  waved  and  a 
few  late  blue  iris  flowers  lingered,  and  over  an 
upland  orchard  of  gnarled  apple-trees  where 
golden-winged  woodpeckers  nested,  only  that 
the  birds  were  all  blown  away  now  by  the 
wind.  Fiercer  and  hotter  grew  the  gale :  it 
twisted  the  brittle  dead  limbs  from  a  pair  of 
gaunt  Lombardy  poplars  ;  it  swayed  them  back 
and  forth  and  beat  them  together  till  both  came 
crashing  down  ;  then  from  out  the  torn  and  in 
termingling  branches  strange  flowers  started 
into  bloom — heavy-odored  and  so  white  !  The 
fallen  trees  were  covered  with  them  as  with 
snow  ;  no,  it  was  snow — snow  everywhere — fill 
ing  all  the  intervale  away  over  to  Oak  Ridge, 
only  Oak  Ridge  was  ten  times  higher  than  she 
had  ever  seen  it,  and  the  intervale  was  full  of 
158 


Lombardy  Poplars 


giant  pines.  Log-cabins  were  scattered  here 
and  there,  and  out  of  them  streamed  throngs  of 
Chinamen,  headed  by  drunken  overseers.  All 
were  converging  upon  a  single  house — their 
steps  were  noiseless  in  the  snow,  and  the  wind, 
grown  icy-cold  now,  drowned  their  voices,  but 
the  moonlight  glittered  on  axe-blades  and  pis 
tol-barrels.  A  lamp  flashed  in  the  solitary 
house,  and  instantly  the  dark  masses  of  men 
made  a  rush  for  it,  swarming  at  the  door,  the 
window,  even  on  the  roof;  then  a  sudden  panic 
seemed  to  seize  them,  for  they  drew  off  again, 
except  two  that  lay  by  the  door,  black  and  mo 
tionless  in  the  moonlight.  It  was  Frank  Jarvis 
there  inside.  He  had  barricaded  the  door  with 
a  roller-top  desk,  and  had  stuffed  a  mattress  in 
to  the  lower  half  of  the  window.  He  was  but 
partly  dressed ;  there  was  an  ugly  look  in  his 
gray  eyes,  and  he  held  a  smoking  revolver.  He 
was  calling  up  Checkerberry  City  by  telephone, 
with  the  same  slow  voice  as  ever  :  "  I  want  a  sher 
iffs  posse  up  here  right  away.  Trouble  with 
the  Chinamen.  Say — John — if  anything  hap 
pens  to  me,  I  wish  you  would  forward  a  message 
to  Miss  Mary  Hertford,  care  of  Deacon  Simp 
son,  South  Broughton,  Massachusetts.  Got  it  ? 

Tell  her  I  send  my  love,  and  ask  her ' '     But 

down  came  door  and  window  under  the  rush 


Lombardy  Poplars 


of  axe-blows ;  the  furious  black  stream  poured 
in  upon  him.  It  was  like  a  swarm  of  bees — 
black — black.  The  wind  died,  and  she  woke. 

It  was  twenty-three  minutes  past  five.  Miss 
Hertford,  in  all  the  strange  horror  of  that 
moment,  noted  the  fact  instinctively,  and  cal 
culated  the  time-difference  between  Boston  and 
Nevada.  She  did  not  doubt  that  Frank  Jarvis 
was  dead,  nor  that  his  death  had  been  instan 
taneously  made  known  to  her  by  the  mysterious 
processes  of  telepathy.  There  were  hundreds 
of  such  cases  on  record  in  the  books  upon  her 
table.  She  herself  had  collected  half  a  dozen, 
and  forwarded  them  to  the  Society  for  Psy 
chical  Research.  It  was  not  strange  to  her 
that  she  had  been  made  aware  of  his  death,  but 
it  seemed  pitifully  strange  that  she  should  have 
grown  conscious  of  her  love  for  him  at  the  very 
moment  when  it  was  too  late.  For  she  knew, 
now,  that  she  loved  him ;  indeed,  she  was  not 
sure  that  she  had  not  loved  him,  all  unknown 
to  herself,  from  the  day  when  they  walked 
home  from  Poplar  Hill  together. 

The  Reverdy  girls  counted  Miss  Hertford's 
gray  hairs  that  morning,  for  the  first  time. 
She  seemed  to  herself,  as  well  as  to  others, 
like  an  old  woman.  Madame  Michel,  startled 
at  the  utter  misery  in  her  face  and  demeanor, 
1 60 


Lombardy  Poplars 


tried  by  intervals  all  the  forenoon  to  pet  her, 
to  win  out  of  her  the  reason  of  her  trouble. 
She  even  had  her  arm  about  Miss  Hertford's 
waist,  in  school  -  girl  fashion,  when  the  two 
teachers  came  down  to  their  twelve  o'clock 
recitations.  Miss  Hertford's  young  ladies,  in 
a  tumult  of  excitement  over  their  dreams, 
were  waiting  for  her  in  the  room  at  the  left 
of  the  front  door.  The  door-bell  rang,  and 
Madame  Michel,  disengaging  her  arm,  answered 
it  herself.  Miss  Hertford  was  crossing  the 
threshold  of  her  recitation  -  room,  when  she 
heard  an  exclamation  behind  her. 

"  Mr.  Jarvees  ! ' '  Madame  Michel  cried  again. 
' '  Enter,  if  you  please  ;  you  are  the  very  wel 
come  !  ' '  She  ushered  him  in  excitedly.  He 
smiled  radiantly  at  her.  One  side  of  his  face 
and  mustache  was  wet  with  snow  ;  he  shook  it 
apologetically  from  his  fur  overcoat.  Then 
he  caught  sight  of  Miss  Hertford,  and  in  an 
instant  was  in  front  of  her,  holding  out  both 
hands.  She  was  white  and  trembling ;  the 
effort  to  raise  her  hand  to  his  gave  her  phy 
sical  torture  ;  she  murmured  his  name  inco 
herently.  Madame  Michel  drew  aside  the 
curtains  of  the  reception-room,  conscious  that 
the  psychology  class  was  studying  the  situation 
through  the  crack  of  the  door. 
161 


Lombardy  Poplars 

"You  do  not  arrive  from  South  Broughton, 
Mr.  Jarvees?  "  she  inquired,  feeling  that  some 
body  ought  to  say  something. 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Jarvis,  forgetting  to 
relinquish  Miss  Hertford's  hand,  as  he  half-led, 
half-followed  her  into  the  reception-room.  "  I 
stayed  at  Deacon  Simpson's  last  night.  I  can 
tell  you  the  wind  blew  up  there  !  This  morning, 
Miss  Hertford,  as  we  drove  by  the  old  place, 
the  Lombardy  poplars  were  blown  down." 

Mary  Hertford  looked  up  at  him  ;  the  color 
mounted  in  her  cheeks  till  they  were  rosy  red  ; 
she  lifted  her  free  hand  helplessly  to  the  other 
— to  his ;  and  Madame  Michel  quietly  drew 
the  portiere  together  again,  murmuring  all  to 
herself  a  triumphant  "  Enfin  !  ': 

Then  she  crossed  the  hall  to  Miss  Hertford's 
recitation-room.  "Young  ladies,"  she  an 
nounced,  with  as  nearly  perfect  an  assumption 
of  her  dry  school-room  tone  as  was  possible  to 
her  at  that  moment,  "  the  class  in  Pseechologee 
is  dismeessed  1  ' ' 


162 


The  Phenix 


THE   PHENIX 
I. 

"  COUNTESS,  may  I  trouble  you  for  that 

v^     cauliflower  ?  ' ' 

The  Countess's  eyes  were  hovering  restlessly 
about  the  farther  end  of  the  long  pension  table, 
but  she  recollected  herself  instantly  at  the  sound 
of  this  mandatory  voice  at  her  right. 

"  Certainly,  Frau  Lieutenant,"  she  ex 
claimed.  "  Pardon  me;"  and  as  the  servant 
was  still  busy  at  the  other  extremity  of  the  room, 
she  lifted  the  nearly  empty  platter  and  passed  it. 

The  Frau  Lieutenant  surveyed  the  cauliflower 
with  an  eye  trained  by  twenty-five  years  of  ex 
perience  at  table-d'hote  dinners.  The  selec 
tion  of  fricasseed  chicken  was  her  specialty, 
though  there  was  not  a  woman  in  Berlin  who 
could  be  more  implicitly  trusted  to  secure  the 
best  piece  of  anything  the  first  time  trying  ;  but 
really  the  cauliflower  offered  no  opportunity  for 
her  skill.  There  was  but  one  bunch  still  un 
touched,  and  she  divided  this  into  two  exactly 
equal  portions. 

165 


The  Phenix 


"  Letty,  my  dear,"  she  said  in  English,  bal 
ancing  one  of  these  portions  upon  the  spoon, 
< '  take  this. ' ' 

"  But,  Mammachen,"  protested  Miss  Letty, 
a  slender,  delicate-complexioned  girl  of  twenty- 
three,  "  I  don't " 

<;  Take  it,  my  dear,"  said  the  Frau  Lieuten 
ant,  imperturbably,  depositing  the  cauliflower 
by  the  side  of  the  stewed  mutton  on  her  daugh 
ter's  plate,  and  rapidly  assisting  herself  to  the 
remaining  portion.  "  It  is  very  fattening." 

This  last  was  in  a  tone  intended  for  a  whis 
per,  but  the  Frau  Lieutenant  Dettmar's  strident 
voice  had  a  remarkably  penetrating  quality,  and 
an  under  -  sized  Englishman,  who  sat  directly 
opposite  Miss  Dettmar,  looked  up  at  the  words. 
He  was  near-sighted,  and  the  dining-room  of 
the  Countess  von  Eckmiiller's /£#j/0»  was  never 
brilliantly  illuminated,  especially  on  a  dingy 
winter  afternoon.  It  was  only  two  o'clock, 
but  the  murky  fog  was  already  settling  down 
into  the  Dorotheen  Strasse,  and  the  corners  of 
the  high,  ugly  room  were  growing  dusky.  The 
Englishman  peered  across  the  table  curiously  at 
his  two  countrywomen,  for  such  did  the  mother 
and  daughter  unmistakably  appear  to  be.  Stubb- 
worth's  insight  into  character,  like  his  visual  fac 
ulty,  was  not  of  the  keenest,  but  he  could  not  help 
1 66 


The  Phenix 


noting  the  difference  between  the  muscular,  as 
sertive  body  of  Mrs.  Dettmar,  her  square,  red 
face,  with  combative  black  eyes  overtopped  by 
a  blacker  false  front  of  hair,  and  the  slightly 
stooping  figure  of  Miss  Letty,  with  her  light- 
blue  child's  eyes,  the  vague  pink  of  her  cheeks, 
and  the  shyness  with  which  she  pecked  with  her 
fork  at  the  cauliflower.  The  daughter  had  evi 
dently  the  physical  characteristics  of  her  father, 
the  lamented  Lieutenant  Dettmar.  So  Stubb- 
worth  reflected,  as  the  result  of  his  inspection, 
and  wished  that  he  might  address  the  girl  in 
English  ;  but  not  daring  to  transgress  the  Count 
ess's  rule  that  only  German  should  be  spoken 
at  meal-times,  he  let  his  spectacled  eyes  fall  to 
his  plate  again,  began  to  separate  the  bones  out 
of  his  mutton  stew,  and  to  meditate  upon  his 
forthcoming  edition  of  "  Middle  English  Hom 
ilies,"  the  preparation  of  which  had  brought 
him  to  Berlin. 

The  lower  end  of  the  table,  where  sat  the 
students  and  the  commercial  young  men,  was 
uproarious,  as  usual.  A  Jewess — studying  for 
the  opera — who  sat  at  Stubbworth's  left,  laughed 
once  or  twice  at  a  student  witticism  so  immod 
erately,  that  the  sedate  Englishman  was  embar 
rassed,  but  the  effervescing  humor  lost  its  sparkle 
by  the  time  it  reached  the  neighborhood  of  the 

167 


The  Phenix 


Countess.  The  people  there  were  dull.  The 
Widow  Dettmar's  soup  had  been  cold,  she  had 
lost  the  first  chance  at  the  stew,  and  she  ate 
away  morosely.  The  Countess  said  nothing, 
but  glanced  from  time  to  time  toward  the  emp 
ty  plate  at  her  left,  and  once  she  whispered  an 
order  to  the  servant.  By  and  by  the  Jewess 
turned  her  dark  face  toward  the  head  of  the 
table. 

4 'Countess  von  Eckmuller,"  she  asked,  "is 
not  Herr  Jarlson  coming  to-day  ?  ' ' 

"Certainly,"  was  the  answer.  "He  was 
called  at  half-past  one,  as  usual. ' ' 

' l  At  half-past  one  !  ' '  interrupted  the  Frau 
Lieutenant  Dettmar.  "You  don't  mean  to 
say  that  that  young  man 

"Exactly,"  said  the  Countess.  "He  is 
called  at  half-past  one.  If  he  does  not  get  up 
by  a  quarter  to  two,  I  take  one  of  his  shoes,  I 
open  his  door,  and  I  cry  '  Hamlet  !  Arise  !  ' 
and  toss  the  shoe  at  him.  Then  he  gets  up." 

"I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing,"  cried  the 
Englishwoman.  "  Did  you,  Letty,  my  dear?  ' ' 

"No,  Mammachen,"  replied  Miss  Letty, 
"  but  it  is  very  funny." 

"  It  is  very  irregular,"  said  Mrs.  Dettmar,  se 
verely.      "  He  is  a  wild  young  man.     One  does 
not  have  to  look  at  him  twice  to  know  that." 
1 68 


The  Pbenix 


"No,  Frau  Lieutenant,"  remarked  the 
Countess,  "  you  misunderstand  Herr  Jarlson 
completely.  It  is  only  his  way." 

"  Yes,  his  way.  I  know  men.  When  a 
young  actor  sits  in  the  cafes  till  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  that  every  night  in  the  week, 
and  sleeps  half  the  day,  of  course  he  is  wild. 
He  must  be.  Oh,  I  know  !  It's  better  for 
him  to  have  his  fling,  though  ;  he'll  settle  down 
when  he  is  thirty.  My  husband  used  to  say  to 
me  that  those  men  were  always  steady  after 
ward.  They  make  the  best  husbands.  As  I 
told  Letty  the  other  day ' ' 

' '  Mammachen, ' '  pleaded  Miss  Letty,  crim 
soning. 

But  the  widow's  worldly  philosophy  was  cut 
short.  A  door  opened  half-way  down  the 
room,  and  a  tall  young  fellow  entered,  apolo 
getically.  Everyone  looked  up. 

"  Here  he  comes,"  cried  the  Countess,  with 
a  smile  on  her  shrewd  old  face.  "He  has 
risen,  like — like — why,  he  is  my  Phenix." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  laughter.  "  The 
Phenix!  The  Phenix!"  echoed  from  the 
students,  as  Herr  Jarlson  took  his  seat  at  the 
Countess's  left.  There  was  indeed  something 
eagle-like  in  the  curve  of  his  nose,  and  the  stiff 
masses  of  his  hair,  brushed  a  la  Pompadour, 
169 


The  Pbenix 


seemed  curiously  like  a  bird's  crest.  "  The 
Phenix,"  chuckled  the  Countess  again  to  her 
self,  delighted  at  her  own  fantasy. 

"Letty,  my  dear,"  whispered  Mrs.  Dettmar  in 
English,  to  her  daughter,  "  what  is  a  Phenix?  " 

"I  think,  Mammachen,"  was  the  doubtful 
answer,  murmured  behind  a  handkerchief,  lest 
the  new-comer  opposite  should  hear,  ' '  I  think 
it  was  a  bird.  Anyway,  it  rose." 

The  Norwegian,  bowing  respectfully  to  the 
English  ladies,  proceeded  to  open  a  bottle  of 
beer,  which  the  Countess  provided  at  dinner 
for  each  of  her  numerous  family,  and  to  empty 
it  bodily  into  a  huge  silver  goblet  that  stood 
beside  his  plate.  It  was  very  bad  beer,  in 
truth,  but  Herr  Jarlson  always  maintained  it 
was  delicious  in  his  Scandinavian  goblet.  He 
took  a  draught  of  it  now,  before  unrolling  his 
napkin,  and  then  turning  to  the  Countess  he 
exclaimed,  enthusiastically  :  "  It  was  grand  !  " 

"Do  you  mean  the  beer,  Herr  Jarlson?" 
demanded  Mrs.  Dettmar,  with  veiled  irony. 

The  Phenix  lifted  his  gray  eyes  to  the 
widow's  face.  He  had  a  proper  terror  of  her, 
a  terror  not  diminished  by  his  secret  admira 
tion  of  her  daughter. 

"No,  not  this  time,"  he  replied,  in  fluent 
German.      "  It  was  the  <  Ghosts.'  " 
170 


The  Pbenix 


"The  ghosts?  What  do  you  mean?  Do 
you  see  ghosts  all  the  forenoon,  after  coming 
in  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning?"  The 
widow  was  so  amused  at  her  joke  that  she 
did  not  hear  Miss  Letty  whispering  that  Herr 
Jarlson  meant  a  play. 

"  It  was  Ibsen's  '  Ghosts,'  Frau  Lieutenant," 
explained  the  Countess,  quietly,  "given  at  the 
Residenz  Theatre  yesterday." 

"Ah,"  said  the  widow.  She  was  not  in 
terested  in  such  matters. 

"It  was  a  feast  to  my  soul,"  Herr  Jarlson 
went  on;  "almost  as  good  as  hearing  it  in 
Norwegian  again." 

"You  must  tell  me  all  about  it  later,"  said 
Countess  von  Eckmiiller.  That  was  the  first 
representation  of  "Ghosts"  in  Berlin,  and  it 
had  not  yet  become  fashionable  to  discuss  the 
play  at  dinner. 

"  Herr  Jarlson,"  spoke  up  the  Jewess,  "  did 
you  remember  ?  ' ' 

"  Certainly,  Fraulein,"  and  the  Phenix  un 
buttoned  his  frock-coat  and  pulled  out  a  com 
plimentary  ticket  to  "Siegfried,"  which  he 
asked  Stubbworth  to  pass  to  her.  She  thanked 
him  so  effusively  that  he  forgot  to  mention  that 
the  ticket  for  which  she  had  applied  through 
him  had  really  not  been  granted,  and  that  he 


The  Phenix 


had  presented  her  with  his  own  instead.  As 
an  accredited  student  of  acting  and  a  fellow  of 
some  promise  in  his  calling  Herr  Jarlson's 
name  stood  higher  on  the  complimentary  lists 
than  did  hers. 

It  was  curious  to  see  how  the  Norwegian's 
appearance  changed  the  atmosphere  of  the 
upper  end  of  the  table.  The  Countess  became 
chatty.  The  servant  brought  a  new  dish  of 
cauliflower,  expressly  kept  hot  for  Herr  Jarlson, 
but  Mrs.  Dettmar  had  a  helping  from  it,  and 
was  thereby  put  in  good  spirits  again.  Miss 
Letty  glanced  across  the  table  timidly,  from 
time  to  time,  and  wondered  why  the  Phenix 
did  not  brush  his  hair  like  other  people;  he 
was  such  an  odd  young  man.  She  fancied 
how  he  would  look  with  a  mustache — such  a 
mustache,  for  instance,  as  had  Major  Vischer, 
her  formal  engagement  to  whom  was  to  be  an 
nounced  next  week,  at  Christmas.  The  Major 
had  a  luxuriant  growth  upon  his  upper  lip,  but 
Miss  Letty  somehow  wished  he  were  not  so 
bald ;  she  would  almost  rather  have  his  hair 
stand  on  end,  like  Herr  Jarlson's.  Then  Miss 
Letty  blushed  to  think  what  Mammachen  would 
say  if  she  knew  her  daughter  had  ventured  to 
criticise  the  estimable  Major  Vischer.  The 
Major  had  been  so  kind,  and  her  ring  next 
172 


The  Pbenix 


week  would  be  no  cheap  little  German  affair, 
she  was  quite  sure.  Mammachen  was  right,  of 
course ;  a  husband  of  forty — even  if  he  were 
bald  and  fat — was  forty  times  better  than  no 
husband ;  and  the  Major  was  so  kind  ;  and 
yet 

But  Mammachen  was  talking  about  Christ 
mas,  with  the  Countess  and  Herr  Jarlson. 
"  No,  they  should  be  useful,"  she  was  saying, 
in  her  polemic  voice.  "The  idea  of  sending 
flowers  as  a  gift !  They  wither  in  two  days, 
and  it  is  money  thrown  away.  If  anybody 
sent  me  flowers,  I  should  be  mad." 

The  Countess  nodded  assent,  having  kept  a 
pension  too  long  to  differ  unnecessarily  with 
her  patrons  ;  but  what  she  was  thinking  of  was 
this:  "  Send  flowers  to  you?  Ich  danke.  I 
should  be  more  likely  to  send  you  a  roast-beef 
rare." 

' '  I  remember  the  first  present  Lieutenant 
Dettmar  ever  gave  me,"  continued  the  widow. 
"  It  was  a  book,  and  I  have  it  yet;  whereas, 
you  see,  if  it  had  been  flowers,  I  should  have 
had  to  throw  them  away  the  day  after.  My 
husband  was  so  sensible.  Letty,  my  dear, 
what  was  that  book  that  Papa  gave  me  ?  ' ' 

"  It  was  '  Proverbs  of  All  Nations,'  Mam-, 
machen." 


The  Phenix 


As  Miss  Letty  gave  this  information,  she 
was  conscious  that  both  Jarlson  and  Stubb- 
worth  were  looking  at  her.  She  thought  that 
a  certain  whimsical  expression  passed  over  the 
Norwegian's  thin  lips,  and  she  blushed  again. 
She  was  very  timid. 

The  conversation  turned  to  other  subjects, 
but  as  for  the  Phenix,  he  continued  to  meditate 
upon  these  countrywomen  of  Shakespeare  until 
the  dinner  was  over,  and  then  he  pushed  back 
his  chair,  opened  another  bottle  of  beer,  and 
began  to  talk  with  the  Countess  about  the  third 
act  of  Ibsen's  "Ghosts." 


174 


II. 


IT  was  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  day 
before  Christmas.  Outside,  in  the  Doro- 
theen  Strasse,  it  was  bitter  cold.  The  droschke 
drivers  on  night  service  slapped  their  arms  and 
shivered  on  their  boxes,  and  the  tramway  horses 
staggered  on  the  slippery  frost  as  the  huge 
double-decked  cars  swung  groaning  around  the 
curve  by  the  Countess  von  Eckmuller's /<?;/.«<?;/. 
In  Stubbworth's  tiny  bedroom  on  the  third 
floor,  it  was  not  much  warmer.  The  tall  por 
celain  stove  was  polished  and  white  like  a 
tombstone,  and  fully  as  cold.  The  English 
man  had  already  risen  and  was  seated  by  his 
lamp,  wrapped  in  a  blanket  dressing-gown, 
and  with  a  towel  around  his  forehead.  He 
was  turning  the  leaves  of  a  huge  Latin  folio 
from  the  Royal  Library,  and  making  annota 
tions.  His  edition  of  Homilies  had  been  al 
most  ready,  poor  fellow,  when  a  German  pub 
lished  the  startling  suggestion  that  the  English 
monk  who  wrote  them  was  indebted  for  some 

175 


The  Phenix 


of  his  ideas  to  the  Latin  sermons  of  a  certain 
Dutch  bishop  of  the  thirteenth  century,  where 
upon  Stubb worth  had  secured  a  month's  res 
pite  from  his  duties  as  private  tutor  in  the 
family  of  a  Norfolk  nobleman,  and  had  spent 
half  his  year's  savings  in  a  trip  to  Berlin,  in 
order  to  investigate  the  extent  of  the  monk's 
obligation  to  his  worthy  Dutch  contemporary. 
The  laborious  comparison  promised  to  be  sin 
gularly  barren  of  results,  but  Stubbworth  had 
the  comfort  of  knowing  that,  provided  his  meth 
ods  \vere  sufficiently  painstaking,  his  chances 
of  securing  a  Ph.D.  were  not  invalidated  by 
the  worthlessness  of  his  conclusions. 

It  was  with  a  slight  feeling  of  annoyance  at 
an  interruption  that  Stubbworth  paused  in  his 
task  and  listened  to  a  footstep  coming  down 
the  corridor.  He  knew  it  well,  for  it  was  the 
habit  of  the  Phenix  to  study  his  roles  in  the 
early  morning,  after  getting  home  from  the 
Kneipe.  and  before  going  to  bed,  and  many 
a  time  in  the  preceding  three  weeks  had  Stubb 
worth  been  wakened  by  the  actor's  coming  in 
to  borrow  his  Shakespeare,  or  to  ask  puzzling 
questions  about  the  mounting  of  Irving's  plays. 

"  Come  in,"  grumbled  Stubbworth,   in  an 
swer  to  the  knock  ;  and  then  he  was  ashamed  of 
his  inhospitality,  for  he  had  been  ill  the  day  be- 
176 


The  Pbenix 


fore  and  Jarlson  had  sat  by  him  the  whole  after 
noon,  trying  to  amuse  him  by  showing  a  col 
lection  of  Scandinavian  coins,  and  by  telling 
about  student  life  at  the  university  of  Chris- 
tiania. 

The  door  opened  quietly,  and  the  Phenix 
entered,  his  latch-key  still  in  his  hand.  He 
unbuttoned  his  pelisse,  threw  his  fur  cap  upon 
the  bed,  and  sat  down,  dejectedly.  "  Do  you 
not  feel  better,  Mr.  Stubbworth  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Something  of  a  headache,"  said  the  Eng 
lishman,  "  but  I  think  I  shall  work  it  off. 
And  you?" 

The  actor  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  am 
freezing,  for  one  thing.  May  I  light  a  ciga 
rette  ? ' ' 

As  Jarlson  rolled  it,  Stubbworth  noticed  that 
his  fingers,  which  were  of  extraordinary  length 
and  delicacy,  were  blue  with  cold. 

' '  Have  you  been  in  the  Kneipe  till  now  ?  ' ' 
asked  Stubbworth,  handing  him  a  match. 

"  Till  three  o'clock,"  was  the  answer.  "  It 
was  stupid,  to-night.  And  since  then  I  have 
been  walking  the  streets.  I  suppose,  if  I  had 
been  a  practical  Englishman,  I  should  have  had 
my  gloves  with  me."  He  tossed  the  burned 
match  toward  the  stove,  and  settled  back 
gloomily  into  his  chair  again,  muttering  an  im- 
177 


The  Phenix 


precation  upon  Berlin  tobacco.  Stubbworth 
watched  him  silently,  not  having  sufficient  con 
versational  command  of  German  to  say  exactly 
what  he  thought.  "  What  did  you  walk  the 
streets  for  ?  "  he  finally  asked. 

"  Without  doubt,  because  I  was  a  fool.  All 
men  are  fools  in  Berlin  ;  read  what  Heine  says 
about  it.  Do  you  know  Major  Vischer  ?  ' ' 

"  I  have  seen  him  here.  Miss  Dett- 
mar's ?" 

"  Yes,  the  betrothed  of  Mees  Letty.  We 
were  both  in  the  Cafe  Bauer  last  evening  ;  I 
had  been  reading  the  Fliegende  Blatter  and  it 
lay  on  my  table.  He  sent  a  waiter  for  it — and  I 
handed  it  to  the  waiter."  This  last  clause  was 
in  a  stage  tone  that  made  Stubbworth  smile. 

"Well?"  said  he. 

"But  I  should  have  flung  it  in  the  Major's 
face,"  cried  Jarlson,  fiercely,  "and  then  two 
hours  from  now  we  should  have  been  standing 
over  on  the  Hasenheide,  waiting  for  the  word. 
Would  you  have  been  my  second?  I  would 
have  wanted  you  there  to  tell  Mees  Letty  after 
ward." 

"  God  forbid  !  "  exclaimed  Stubbworth. 
"The  Major  would  have  brought  you  down 
like  a  partridge,  and  it  would  have  broken  Miss 
Letty's  heart." 

178 


The  Phenix 


' '  Do  you  think  she  would  really  care  ?  ' ' 

"  Of  course  she  would  care,  you  silly  fellow," 
growled  Stubbworth,  affectionately.  "  Do  you 
think  any  girl  with  an  English  mother  wants  to 
have  a  duel  fought  about  her  ?  She  is  to  be 
formally  engaged  to  the  Major  to-morrow,  is 
she  not  ?  Do  you  suppose  she  would  want  to 
marry  a  man  who  had  just  killed  you  ? ' ' 
Stubbworth  had  very  rarely  put  together  as 
much  German  as  that  at  a  time,  and  was  rather 
proud  of  it. 

The  Phenix  tossed  away  his  cigarette,  and 
thrusting  his  shivering  fingers  deep  into  the 
pockets  of  his  pelisse,  dropped  his  chin  upon 
his  breast. 

' '  You  would  better  go  to  bed  and  get 
warm,"  continued  Stubbworth,  virtuously,  ''if 
you  have  had  nothing  better  to  think  of  than 
fighting  Major  Vischer,  while  you  were  walking 
Unter  den  Linden." 

' '  But  I  had  !  ' '  exclaimed  the  young  fellow, 
eagerly.  "  Much  of  the  time  I  was  thinking 
about  her. " 

Stubbworth  shut  his  Latin  folio,  and  pushed 
his  chair  around  to  face  Herr  Jarlson.  There 
were  no  love  episodes  in  the  "  Middle  English 
Homilies,"  and  he  felt  ill  at  ease  in  his  role  of 
confidant. 

179 


The  Phenix 


"  I  was  thinking  of  Mees  Letty,"  Jarlson 
went  on,  "  and  the  air  was  all  like  spring.  Is 
she  not  beautiful  ?  ' ' 

"Why,  yes,"  admitted  Stubbworth,  wonder 
ing  at  the  Norseman's  simplicity. 

"Do  you  think  she  would  accept  a  gift 
from  me  to-day,  the  day  before  she  is  be 
trothed  ?  ' ' 

Stubbworth  stared  at  him.      "  A  gift  ?  " 

"  It  is  only  a  philopena.  I  lost  it  to  her  at 
dinner  yesterday.  But  I  did  not  think  the  Frau 
Mamma  wished  me  to  pay,  and  I  did  not  know 
the  English  customs.  She  is  really  an  English 
girl,  you  know,  in  spite  of  her  German  father 
and  her  continental  life.  Must  I  send  her 
gloves  ?  ' ' 

"Why,  no,"  said  Stubbworth,  hesitatingly. 
"  I  don't  see  why  you  can't  give  her  anything 
you  like,  if  you  fairly  owe  it. ' ' 

"  Very  good  ;  " — Jarlson's  hands  came  out  of 
his  pockets  with  an  inquiring  gesture — "  and 
now,  could  I  give  her  a  book  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  so  ;  why  can't  you  put  it  on 
the  Christmas-tree  to-night  ?  " 

The  Phenix  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  was 
blessed  with  a  volatile  temperament,  and  not 
withstanding  his  tragic  designs  of  the  past  night, 
he  had  the  healthy  courage  of  his  twenty-four 
i  So 


The  P  be  nix 


years.  He  struck  his  hand  into  Stubbworth's 
just  as  Don  Carlos  greets  the  Marquis  of  Posa. 
11  Mr.  Stubbworth,"  he  cried,  "  if  I  had  had  ai 
confidant  like  you  six  weeks  ago,  when  I  first 
met  her,  all  might  have  been  different.  I  do 
not  understand  the  English  ways  ;  I  have  not 
dared  address  her,  and  I  have  been  afraid  of  the 
Mammachen.  But  now  I  will  put  that  book 
upon  the  Christmas-tree  in  spite  of  all  the  Ma 
jors  in  Prussia,  and  if  she  thanks  me  for  it,  I 
will  tell  her  in  English " 

"  You  had  better  put  it  in  German,"  inter 
rupted  Stubbworth,  grimly. 

"  Bewahre  !  It  shall  either  be  in  her  mother 
tongue  or  in  mine  ;  she  knows  not  a  word  of 
Norwegian,  and  I  shall  say  to  her  in  English, 
'  /  atore  you  !  '  If  she  is  angry,  you  will  find 
me  lying  out  on  the  Hasenheide  in  the  morn 
ing." 

And  nodding  his  head  sententiously  at  the 
astonished  Englishman,  who  had  not  taken  the 
actor's  devotion  to  Miss  Letty  quite  seriously 
enough,  Herr  Jarlson  gathered  his  pelisse  about 
him,  and  bowed  himself  grandly  out  of  the  bed 
room  door,  in  what  would  have  been  an  admi 
rable  stage  exit,  had  he  not  backed  into  a 
frightened  servant,  hurrying  along  the  narrow 
corridor  to  start  the  kitchen  fire.  As  for  Mr. 
181 


The  Phenix 


Stubbworth,  he  stood  a  full  minute  looking  at 
the  door,  before  he  found  breath  enough  to 
grumble  out  something  to  himself  about  love 
being  blind.  But  it  was  chillier  in  his  room 
than  it  had  seemed  before,  and  he  lighted  his 
pipe  and  wasted  ten  minutes  in  a  dull  dream  of 
something  that  had  happened  in  his  own  under 
graduate  days.  Then  he  wiped  his  spectacles, 
knotted  the  towel  more  closely  around  his  fore 
head,  tightened  the  belt  of  his  old  dressing- 
gown,  and  found  his  place  again  in  the  Latin 
folio. 


182 


III. 


AT  six  o'clock  that  evening  the  whole  pen 
sion,  with  a  single  exception,  was  gath 
ered  in  the  long  dining-room.  Through  the 
crack  in  the  folding  -  doors  at  one  end,  there 
could  be  seen  the  green  and  gilt  of  the  Christ 
mas  -  tree,  which  had  been  selected  by  the 
Countess  herself  at  the  Jahrmarkt  the  night 
before.  The  beloved  Crown  Prince  Frederick, 
wandering  with  his  younger  children  through 
the  Jahrmarkt  also — and,  as  it  sadly  proved, 
for  the  last  time — had  stopped  in  admiration 
before  this  very  tree,  though  they  had  finally 
decided  that  it  was  not  quite  tall  enough.  But 
the  incident  was  sufficient  to  add  to  the  aroma 
of  the  fir  a  sort  of  odor  of  royalty. 

There  had  been  a  remarkably  good  dinner  at 
four  o'clock,  but  now  the  table  was  cleared, 
save  for  a  huge  punch  -  bowl  in  the  middle. 
Several  toasts  had  been  drunk  already,  and 
there  were  plenty  more  to  come,  for  the  tree 
was  not  to  be  lighted  until  eight  o'clock.  Each 
member  of  the.  miscellaneous  family  was  pledged 

183 


The  Pbenix 


to  do  something  for  the  common  entertainment, 
and  the  Countess  began,  bringing  out  a  dusty 
harp  from  behind  the  sideboard,  and  playing 
fantasies  in  a  fashion  which  made  it  easy  for  her 
audience  to  believe  that  the  harp  had  resounded 
in  the  Countess's  ancestral  halls  upon  the  Oder 
for  immemorial  centuries.  Fran  Lieutenant 
Dettmar,  who  was  sceptical  about  the  antiquity 
of  the  Countess's  title,  was  unfortunately  not  in 
the  dining-room.  The  postman  had  brought 
her  some  letters,  just  as  dinner  was  over,  and 
she  had  retired  to  her  own  room  to  read  them. 
She  did  not  come  back.  A  medical  student 
from  Madrid  danced  a  Spanish  dance  amid 
thunderous  applause,  and  a  toast  was  drunk  to 
Spain  ;  but  Mrs.  Dettmar  was  still  absent.  Miss 
Letty,  arrayed  in  her  last  season's  Homburg 
finery,  played,  in  the  most  modest  and  pretty 
\vay  imaginable,  her  whole  repertory  of  five 
pieces  upon  the  guitar,  and  a  toast  was  drunk  to 
her  native  land  ;  but  Mammachen  was  not  there 
to  see.  Mr.  Stubbworth,  under  the  mellowing 
warmth  of  the  occasion,  delivered,  in  broken 
German,  an  impressive  homily  upon  the  inti 
mate  relations  of  England  with  Germany,  and 
the  students  insisted  upon  toasting  England 
once  more ;  and  still  Mrs.  Dettmar  sat  in  her 
room,  reading  those  two  letters. 
184 


The  Phenix 


The  first  was  from  a  retired  Prussian  officer, 
an  old  friend  of  her  husband.  Presenting  his 
apologies  for  referring  to  a  matter  so  delicate, 
and  alleging  as  his  excuse  his  deep  interest  in 
the  family  of  the  late  Lieutenant  Dettmar,  the 
writer  made  bold  to  inquire,  in  view  of  the  ap 
proaching  betrothal,  whether  the  Frau  Lieu 
tenant  was  aware  that  Major  Vischer,  so  far 
from  being  the  man  of  property  he  was  reputed, 
was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  considerably  in  debt  ? 
Knowing  that  a  mere  word  upon  this  subject 
would  be  sufficient  to  impress  upon  such  a  pru 
dent  mother  the  importance  of  an  exact  under 
standing  of  the  financial  condition  of  her  future 
son-in-law,  the  writer  begged  leave  to  subscribe 
himself  her  very  humble  servant  and  the  de 
voted  friend  of  her  lamented  husband. 

In  debt  ?  Major  Vischer  in  debt  ?  Major 
Vischer,  who  had  served  under  her  Franz  in 
that  Holstein  business  and  again  in  the  Aus 
trian  campaign  ;  who  had  sowed  his  wild  oats 
long  ago ;  who  owned,  as  she  supposed,  that 
fine  estate  in  Saxony,  and  who  was  devoted  to 
Miss  Letty — Major  Vischer  actually  in  debt  ! 
The  valiant  widow  trembled,  like  a  rider  who 
pulls  up  on  the  verge  of  a  precipice.  She  had 
almost  made  the  one  blunder  of  her  life  ! 

The  second  letter  was  from  the  Major  him- 
185 


The  Phenix 


self.  He  was  chagrined  to  inform  her  that  his 
duties  as  staff- officer  suddenly  called  him  away 
from  Berlin  that  day,  to  inspect  the  fortress  of 
Konigstein.  In  vain  had  he  pleaded  with  his 
superiors  the  importance  of  his  family  engage 
ment  ;  they  had  been  inexorable.,  and  the  mor 
row,  to  which  he  had  looked  forward  with  such 
ardent  anticipation,  would  behold  him  in  Sax 
on-Switzerland.  He  hoped  to  return  by  Syl 
vester  Evening,  the  3ist,and  he  trusted  that  his 
dearest  Miss  Letty  would  consider  New  Year's 
Day  as  propitious  a  time  for  their  betrothal 
as  Christmas  Day  would  have  proved,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  stern  duties  of  his  profession. 

Mrs.  Dettmar  breathed  a  little  easier  on 
reading  this.  Providence  had  come  to  her  help, 
she  \vas  sure.  There  was  a  whole  week  in 
which  to  break  to  her  daughter  the  dreadful 
news  of  the  Major's  poverty,  and  to  prepare 
her  for  the  inevitable  rupture.  Miss  Letty 
worshipped  the  Major  !  It  would  nearly  break 
the  dear  child's  heart,  but  that  could  not  be 
helped.  No  girl  of  hers  should  ever  marry  a 
man  who  had  misrepresented  his  income  !  Still, 
she  could  not  bear  to  spoil  Letty's  Christmas- 
eve. 

She  went  back  into  the  dining-room.  The 
Jewess  was  just  ending  an  aria  from  "  Norma," 
1 86 


The  Pbenix 


amid  rapturous  expressions  of  delight.  Then 
there  was  a  moment's  awkwardness.  Tolerant 
as  was  this  cosmopolitan  pension,  it  could  hard 
ly  be  expected  that  anyone  would  propose  a 
toast  to  the  Hebrews.  But  Herr  Jarlson  was 
equal  to  the  emergency. 

"Gentlemen  and  ladies,"  he  cried,  "in 
token  of  our  appreciation  of  Fraulein  Gold- 
schmidt's  talent,  I  propose  that  we  drink  to 
the  glory  of  Art  !  ' ' 

' '  Bravo  !  ' '  called  out  the  Countess. 

Miss  Letty  clapped  her  little  hands  enthu 
siastically  ;  it  had  been  so  quick-witted  in  Herr 
Jarlson  ;  not  even  the  Major  could  have  shown 
a  kinder  heart.  Mrs.  Dettmar,  who  had  taken 
the  seat  reserved  for  her  between  the  Countess 
and  Stubbworth,  and  at  some  little  distance,  as 
it  happened,  from  Miss  Letty,  joined  with  the 
rest  in  the  formal  homage  to  Art.  Then  there 
were  loud  calls  for  the  Phenix,  from  all  over 
the  room  :  ' '  Play  something  for  us  !  "  "  Herr 
Jarlson  !  "  "  Herr  Jarlson  !  ' '  and  some  of  those 
who  knew  the  roles  he  had  been  studying, 
cried,  "Uriel  Acosta !  "  and  others,  "  Der 
Prinz  von  Homburg  !  ' '  The  Phenix  glanced 
inquiringly  at  the  Countess. 

"You  must  obey,  my  Hamlet,"  she  said, 
* '  but  you  shall  take  whatever  role  you  please. ' ' 

187 


The  Phenix 


He  rose,  buttoned  his  coat,  and  passed  to 
the  farther  end  of  the  room,  where  the  students 
made  place  for  him. 

"It  will  be  nothing  improper,  will  it?" 
whispered  Mrs.  Dettmar. 

"  No,"  answered  the  Countess,  sharply. 
"  He  is  innocent  as  a  child.  He  is  thoroughly 
good  ;  he  is  not  so  much  of  a  worldling  as  you 
or  I,  Fran  Lieutenant.  His  late  hours  and  his 
Kunstlerleben  are  nothing  but  boyishness. ' ' 

"  Gentlemen  and  ladies,"  said  the  Phenix, 
"I  shall  have  the  honor  of  reciting  from  the 
first  act  of  'Don  Carlos,'  where  the  Prince 
confesses  to  the  Marquis  of  Posa  his  love  for 
the  Queen" 

His  face  was  pale  and  his  voice  husky.  In 
stead  of  sleeping,  that  forenoon,  he  had  been 
the  round  of  the  Berlin  book-stores.  There 
was  a  hush  all  through  the  room.  Half-way 
down  one  side  sat  Miss  Letty,  leaning  forward 
in  her  chair,  an  eager  color  in  her  gentle  face. 
She  expected  to  enjoy  this  so  much.  It  was 
not  often  that  Mammachen  could  be  persuaded 
to  go  to  the  theatre,  and  here  was  the  theatre 
come  to  them. 

Slowly  and  somewhat  heavily  did  the  Phenix 
get  under  way,  shaking  his  crest  once  or  twice 
as  if  to  free  himself,  but  rising  gallantly  as  he 
1 88 


The  Phenix 


caught  the  gusts  of  that  great  scene  ;  and  then 
ascending,  whirling  in  swift  gyre  upon  gyre, 
he  swept  onward  down  the  splendid  storm  of 
Schiller's  passion  ;  and  the  frail  English  girl, 
who  was  half  German  after  all,  followed  him 
with  dilating  eyes  of  admiration.  She  had 
never  seen  Herr  Jarlson  look  so  handsome. 

As  he  paused  at  the  end  of  the  scene,  there 
was  a  great  clapping  of  hands. 

' '  Is  Herr  Jarlson  really  a  good  actor  ?  ' ' 
asked  Mrs.  Dettmar  of  the  Countess. 

"  That  is  for  you  to  judge.  I  think  so.  He 
plays  these  First  Lover  roles  well,  do  you  see, 
because  he  has  so  much  feeling,  and  because  he  is 
young,"  she  added,  shrewdly;  "but  his  voice 
and  his  face  fit  him  admirably  for  old  men's 
parts.  You  should  hear  him  play  Polonius. ' ' 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  he  can  make 
a  living  on  the  stage  ?  ' ' 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  it.  He  has  had  good 
offers  here,  but  prefers  to  make  his  debut  in 
some  provincial  theatre.  He  is  no  fool,  my 
Phenix." 

There  was  a  fresh  burst  of  applause  from  the 
other  end  of  the  room.  Herr  Jarlson  was  go 
ing  on.  "  I  will  give  you  the  fifth  scene  in  that 
same  act,"  he  said  gravely,  "  where  Don  Carlos 
makes  his  love  declaration  to  the  young  Queen." 
189 


The  Phenix 


Again  there  was  the  perfect  silence,  broken 
by  his  husky,  fervent  voice.  The  passage  was 
perfectly  familiar  to  most  of  those  in  the  room, 
but  Miss  Letty  had  never  seen  it  acted.  It 
made  her  tremble  a  little  at  the  outset ;  that 
hapless  love  was  such  a  terrible  thing.  And 
the  poor  Queen,  to  be  married  to  a  graybeard 
when  all  the  while  she  really  loved  the  gray- 
beard's  son  !  To  marry  the  wrong  person  and 
find  it  out  when  too  late — too  late — it  would  be 
horrible.  She  wondered  if  Philip  II.  was  fat 
and  bald  like — like  a  certain  person  ;  and  then 
she  was  ashamed  of  herself,  and  frightened  at 
the  way  Herr  Jarlson  looked  at  her.  He 
was  playing  his  part  to  her  ;  he  was  pleading 
there  as  Don  Carlos  with  her  alone,  and  his 
gray  eyes  flashed  so  that  she  could  not  look 
away  from  them.  Her  heart  beat  hard.  It 
was  so  hot  there  in  the  dining-room,  and 
something  choked  her.  Why  could  she  not 
look  away  from  him  ?  Her  head  swam ;  she 
grasped  her  poor  soiled  fan  as  tightly  as  she 
could,  to  hold  on  to  herself,  to  make  sure 
that  it  was  herself  and  not  the  Queen.  But 
she  was  the  Queen ;  it  was  she  herself  who  was 
saying  : 

"Sie  wagen  es,  zit  hoffen, 
Wo  A  lies,  A  lies  schon  verloren  ist?" 

190 


The  Phenix 


and  yet  it  was  not  Don  Carlos,  but  Herr  Jarl 
son,  who  cried,  in  passionate  answer  : 

"  Ich  gebe  Nichts  verloren  als  die  Todten" 

The  room  whirled  around.  The  actor's  fig 
ure  was  lost  in  a  gray  blur — she  caught  at  her 
chair  to  save  herself  from  falling. 

But  Herr  Jarlson  had  stopped,  and  the  up 
roarious  plaudits  and  the  clinking  of  glasses 
brought  her  to  her  senses.  The  Jewess  leaned 
over  and  said:  "You  are  a  little  faint,  Miss 
Letty  ?  ' ' 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered,  "not  now." 

'<  Come,  Phenix,"  cried  the  Countess,  "  we 
have  had  enough  tragedy.  You  must  help  me 
light  the  tree  now."  Herr  Jarlson  bowed 
obediently,  and  they  disappeared  behind  the 
folding-doors.  Miss  Letty  sat  there,  strangely 
ill  at  ease.  She  was  thinking. 

Mammachen,  whose  black  eyes  had  been 
riveted  upon  her  daughter  and  the  Phenix,  was 
thinking  too.  She  was  a  far-sighted  woman, 
and  that  was  a  very  distant  horizon  upon  which 
she  could  not  see  a  cloud  like  a  man's  hand. 
But  she  was  nervous.  That  letter  about  the 
Major  had  upset  her,  and  she  had  to  talk  to 
somebody.  Sitting  next  her  was  Stubbworth, 
blinking  in  the  light,  and  awaiting  fearfully  the 
191 


The  Phenix 


distribution  of  the  gifts.  He  had  inner  visions 
of  the  Phenix  lying  out  on  the  Hasenheide  in 
the  morning. 

"  Herr  Jarlson  is  a  capital  actor,  isn't  he  ?  " 
she  remarked  affably,  in  English. 

"Indeed  he  is,"  said  Stubbworth ;  "he  is 
a  man  of  fine  feeling. ' ' 

"Ah?" 

"He  is  very  good  -  hearted.  I  was  ill  yes 
terday,  and  he  spent  nearly  all  the  afternoon 
showing  me  his  collection  of  coins." 

Stubbworth  spoke  with  some  agitation. 

"  Of  coins  ?  I  shouldn't  have  supposed  that 
he  could  afford  to  have  a  collection  of  coins. ' ' 

' '  Why,  yes, ' '  was  the  eager  answer.  '  *  Herr 
Jarlson's  father  is  only  a  country  clergyman, 
but  his  grandfather  is  a  great  land-owner.  He 
sent  him  to  the  university  of  Christiania,  and 
then  here ;  and  if  all  goes  well  with  Herr  Jarl 
son,  he  will  inherit  a  very  neat  property." 

"  Indeed  !  "  exclaimed  the  widow.  "  I — I 
am  somewhat  surprised.  But  that  is  very  fort 
unate — for  him,  I  mean.  You  are  quite  sure, 
Mr.  Stubbworth?  " 

"  Quite,"  said  he.     But  his  voice  was  lost 

in  the  Christmas  hymn  that  all  the  others  were 

singing  as  the  doors  drew  back.     There  blazed 

the  noble  tree,  decked  with  colored  candles  and 

192 


The  P  he  nix 


cheap  gilt,  and  all  the  pension  admired  it  im 
mensely,  laughing  like  children  when  the  fir 
needles  caught  fire  or  the  candles  burned 
crookedly,  and  most  of  them  had  no  thought 
beyond  the  peace  and  good -will  of  that  ever- 
blessed  time.  But  Stubb worth  and  the  Phenix 
scarcely  looked  at  the  Christmas  -  tree  ;  they 
eyed  the  Countess  as  she  distributed  the  pres 
ents  that  lay  piled  upon  a  table.  At  last  she 
reached  it ;  that  little  package  upon  whose  re 
ception  a  romantic  Norseman  had  staked  his 
happiness.  Stubb  worth  himself  handed  it  to 
Miss  Letty  ;  it  was  a  Prachtband  in  ugly  cover 
of  red  and  gold.  Herr  Jarlson's  card  slipped 
from  the  title-page.  Miss  Letty's  fingers  shook ; 
she  did  not  glance  at  the  title. 

"  Mammachen  !  "  she  exclaimed,  in  a  helpless 
whisper.  "  He  has  sent  me  a  gift,  and  I  am  to 
be  betrothed  to-morrow.  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dettmar  took  up  the  card  deliberately. 
It  was  a  very  stylish  card,  and  "  Philopena  " 
was  pencilled  faintly  upon  it.  She  opened  the 
book  ;  it  was  a  copy  of  ( '  Proverbs  of  all  Na 
tions." 

"  Letty,  my  dear,  it  is  a  philopena.  He  is 
a  very  sensible  young  man.  Of  course  you 
must  go  and  thank  him." 

The   Phenix  was  standing   apart    from    the 


The  Phentx 


others,  and  Miss  Letty  obeyed.  "  Herr  Jarl- 
son,"  she  said,  falteringly,  "it  was  so  kind — 
it  was  very  good — "  and  then  their  eyes  met. 
She  stopped,  but  she  did  not  turn  away;  a 
deep  blush  crimsoned  her  face,  as  she  stood 
looking  up  at  him.  Nor  did  he  speak  at  first. 
Then  his  English  came  to  him. 

"Mees  Letty,"  he  whispered,  "  /  at " 

But  someone  touched  his  arm.  It  was  Mam- 
machen.  "  Herr  Jarlson,"  she  said,  with  the 
black  eyes  straight  in  his  face,  "it  was  very 
thoughtful  of  you  to  give  that  useful  book  to 
my  daughter.  We  have  tea  served  in  our  room 
every  afternoon  at  four  ;  may  we  not  see  you 
there  soon  ?  Come,  Letty,  my  dear,  it  is  time 
for  us  to  go." 


194 


IV. 


THE  Phenix  did  not  go  out  to  the  Hasen- 
heide  and  put  a  bullet  through  his  brains ; 
on  the  contrary  he  dragged  Mr.  Stubbworth 
around  to  the  Cafe  Bauer  to  partake  of  a  most 
excellent  late  supper.  But  they  did  not  talk 
about  Miss  Letty ;  the  conversation  was  mostly 
upon  philology  and  the  forthcoming  edition  of 
the  Homilies. 

The  next  day,  at  four,  Jarlson  presented 
himself  at  the  Widow  Dettmar's  room,  sipped 
his  tea  with  counterfeited  pleasure,  and  an 
swered  several  shrewdly  disguised  interrogations 
about  himself.  He  was  as  favorably  received 
as  any  young  man  could  have  been,  but  alas  ! 
Miss  Letty,  to  her  mother's  chagrin,  had  gone 
out  with  the  Countess  to  admire  the  Christmas 
display  in  the  Passage  ;  and  had  stood  so  long 
before  each  shop  window  that  even  the  Coun 
tess's  impatience  did  not  bring  them  back  to 
the  pension  before  Herr  Jarlson  had  finished 
his  call.  Miss  Lotty's  delay  had  been  inten 
tional  ;  she  dreaded  talking  with  the  Norwegian 

195 


The  Phenix 


again  so  soon  after  that  strange  moment  and 
that  inexplicable,  half-uttered  English  sentence 
of  the  night  before.  Her  professed  admiration 
for  the  toys  in  the  Passage  was  a  makeshift 
for  her  frightened  little  heart;  but  Mam- 
machen  had  no  suspicion  of  this,  and  repri 
manded  her  for  her  lack  of  courtesy  to  such  a 
promising  young  man  as  Herr  Jarlson.  The 
widow  was  tempted  to  go  farther  and  expose 
the  deception  of  which  Major  Vischer  had  been 
guilty,  but  she  did  not  have  quite  the  heart  to 
tell  Miss  Letty  all.  Her  explanation,  the  night 
before,  that  the  Major  had  been  called  to  Sax 
ony  for  a  week  on  military  service,  must  do  for 
the  present.  That  fact  of  itself  should  have 
been  hard  enough  for  the  Major's  fiancee  to 
bear,  and  yet  Mammachen  thought  that  Letty 
had  listened  to  the  news  without  any  very  deep 
sense  of  disappointment.  Upon  almost  every 
other  subject  the  widow  was  extraordinarily  un 
imaginative,  but  as  a  mother,  and  a  provident 
mother,  she  had  a  sort  of  faith  that  something 
would  happen  before  the  week  was  over  to  make 
clearer  her  duty  toward  her  darling  child. 

Nevertheless  the  week  went  by  uneventfully. 

Herr  Jarlson  dropped  in  again  for  tea,  it  was 

true,  but  again  Miss  Letty    absented  herself. 

Sylvester  Evening  came,  and   as  she  sat  with 

196 


The  Phenix 


the  others  in  the  pension  dining-room,  after  the 
eight-o'clock  supper  was  over,  the  widow  was 
sorely  troubled.  The  Major  might  arrive  at 
any  moment.  To  be  sure,  she  had  sent  a  note 
to  his  lodgings  asking  him  to  come,  not  that 
night,  but  the  next  morning,  when  she  pro 
posed  to  herself  to  see  him  alone  and  charge 
him  to  his  face  with  having  deceived  her  about 
the  property;  but  in  his  eagerness  he  might 
drive  directly  from  the  station  to  the  pension, 
and  then  there  would  be  a  delightful  state  of 
affairs. 

On  Sylvester  Evening  it  had  long  been  cus 
tomary  at  the  pension  to  pass  the  time  as  mer 
rily  as  possible  until  the  old  year  was  nearly 
gone,  and  then  to  sally  forth  to  enjoy  the  brief 
carnival  enacted  each  year  in  the  Berlin  streets 
at  midnight.  But  the  Widow  Dettmar  was  in 
no  mood  for  the  songs  and  speeches  and  toasts 
which  recalled  the  gayety  of  the  week  before. 
She  sat  in  a  corner  with  Miss  Letty,  and  trem 
bled  whenever  the  door  opened  lest  she  might 
behold  the  radiant  countenance  of  Major 
Vischer.  The  hours  seemed  to  her  to  crawl  so 
slowly  by  ;  the  merriment  was  only  a  forced 
echo  of  Christmas  ;  at  any  moment — to-morrow 
at  the  latest — the  Major  would  arrive,  and 
Letty,  thanks  to  her  mother's  consideration, 
197 


The  Phenix 


was  still  ignorant  of  his  baseness  and  unac 
countably  obstinate  in  avoiding  Herr  Jarlson. 
It  was  provoking.  Gloomily  did  Mrs.  Dettmar 
survey  the  Phenix  as  he  rose  in  obedience  to 
the  Countess's  desire  and  acted  Polonius.  He 
was  a  worthy  young  man,  with  fine  prospects 
professionally  and  otherwise,  and  yet  his  Polo- 
mus,  admirable  as  the  Countess  pronounced  it  to 
be,  appeared  to  Mrs.  Dettmar  to  lack  some  of 
the  fervor  which  had  characterized  his  Don 
Carlos.  Miss  Letty  sat  with  her  eyes  in  her  lap 
all  the  time  he  was  reciting.  It  was  enough  to 
discourage  the  stoutest  maternal  heart. 

Eleven  o'clock  came,  then  half-past.  The 
Major  did  not  arrive.  At  a  quarter  to  twelve 
the  company  broke  up  in  little  parties.  The 
Countess  asked  Mrs.  Dettmar  and  Miss  Letty, 
Herr  Jarlson  and  Mr.  Stubbworth,  to  accompany 
her.  Miss  Letty  was  very  silent  as  she  put  on 
her  wraps.  Her  mother,  arraying  herself  in  a 
fur  cape  and  straw  hat — for  she  had  gone  with 
out  a  winter  bonnet  for  the  sake  of  adding 
to  Letty's  trousseau — watched  her  nervously. 
The  old  year  was  almost  gone ;  with  the  next 
morning  would  come  the  broken  engagement, 
and  then  another  campaign  on  the  part  of  a 
devoted  mother  who  had  already  fought  her 
best. 

198 


The  Phenix 


"Mr.  Stubbworth,"  said  the  Countess,  as 
they  descended  the  huge  winding  staircase, 
"  you  shall  escort  Miss  Letty,  and  you  may 
talk  English.  My  Phenix  must  watch  over 
the  Frau  Lieutenant  and  myself. ' '  Mrs.  Dett- 
mar's  heart  sank  again. 

Dorotheen  Strasse  was  perfectly  still,  save 
for  a  few  hurrying  groups  of  people  like  them 
selves.  There  was  no  moon,  but  the  night 
was  fine,  and  warmer  than  the  day  had  been. 
They  turned  down  Charlotten  Strasse,  past  the 
black  shadow  of  the  Hotel  de  Rome,  and 
crossed  Unter  den  Linden  diagonally.  The 
wide  street  was  empty,  but  almost  every  build 
ing  was  still  lighted,  notwithstanding  the  late 
ness  of  the  hour,  and  as  they  reached  the 
southern  side,  they  could  see  special  policemen 
stationed  everywhere.  Just  as  the  Countess's 
little  company,  keeping  close  together,  started 
down  Friedrich  Strasse,  somewhere,  high  up  in 
that  tranquil  midnight  air,  a  deep  bell  struck 
— one — two — Hark  !  There  was  a  rush  and 
roar  of  many  feet,  a  manifold  cry  of  confused 
voices,  and  in  an  instant  hundreds  and  thou 
sands  of  people  poured  into  the  narrow  street, 
a  black  stream  issuing  from  every  building  and 
alley-way,  and  on  every  lip  there  was  the  one 
jubilant  shout : 

199 


The  Pbenix 


' '  Prosit   Neujahr  !     Prosit !     Prosit 
jahr!" 

"Prosit!"  answered  the  Countess,  as  a 
workman  shouted  his  greeting  in  her  face,  for 
the  etiquette  of  this  carnival  demanded  a 
perfect  democracy  of  well-wishing.  "Pro 
sit  Neujahr!"  shrieked  Herr  Jarlson  into 
the  ear  of  a  policeman,  who  was  struggling 
to  keep  the  crowd  from  trampling  upon  one 
another. 

' '  Prosit  Neujahr  !  ' '  called  out  Miss  Letty, 
vaguely,  fearing  a  condign  punishment  from 
some  source  if  she  did  not  conform  to  the  law 
of  the  hour ;  and  back  and  forth  surged  the 
tumult,  and  higher  and  higher  rose  the  boister 
ous  greeting  to  the  opening  year. 

Herr  Jarlson  was  in  front,  trying  to  keep 
the  ladies  from  being  too  roughly  jostled,  and 
at  the  same  time  to  guard  his  silk  hat,  which 
he  had  foolishly  worn,  and  which  was  con 
sidered  a  fair  target  for  friendly  blows.  Sud 
denly  he  stopped.  A  large  cafe  had  flung  open 
its  doors,  and  hundreds  of  men  were  pouring 
out  across  the  pavement ;  it  was  impossible  to 
force  a  passage  for  the  moment,  and  the  five 
people  from  the  pension  were  crowded  out 
toward  the  street  by  the  pressure  from  behind. 
The  dazzling  electric  light  from  the  cafe 
200 


The  Phenix 


streamed  across  the  disorderly  mass  of  figures 
in  a  wide  bar  as  bright  as  day ;  it  gleamed  on 
the  faces  of  the  men  and  women  upon  the  op 
posite  pavement. 

"  Oh,  what  is  the  matter  over  there  ?  "  cried 
Miss  Letty. 

It  was  only  a  couple  of  shop-girls,  without 
escort,  teased  by  a  ring  of  men.  The  same 
instant  that  Miss  Letty  spoke,  a  short  man  with 
sweeping  mustache  grasped  one  of  the  girls 
from  behind  and  kissed  her,  then  let  her  go 
again,  and  stood  there  with  his  face  full  in  that 
brilliant  bar  of  light,  laughing  at  his  New 
Year's  joke.  It  was  Major  Vischer,  in  civilian's 
dress.  Stubbworth  recognized  him,  and  in 
stinctively  threw  himself  in  front  of  Miss  Letty, 
that  she  might  not  have  the  shame  of  seeing 
who  it  was.  But  he  was  too  late. 

"  Mammachen,"  said  Miss  Letty,  in  a  chok 
ing  voice,  "  can  we  not  go  home  now?  I  am 
so  tired  !  ' ' 

"Why,  yes,  Letty,"  answered  Mrs.  Dett- 
mar,  who  had  been  peering  with  some  interest 
into  the  open  door  of  the  cafe  ;  "  certainly,  if 
you  have  seen  enough;  "  and  with  great  dif 
ficulty  they  all  turned  around  and  began  to 
struggle  back  through  the  on-coming  crowd. 
The  gentlemen  made  heroic  efforts  to  clear 
201 


The  Phenix 


a  passage,  but  they  were  all  separated  more 
than  once,  and  when  they  finally  emerged  into 
Unter  den  Linden  again,  Miss  Letty  was  lean 
ing  against  Jarlson's  arm,  Stubbworth  was  sup 
porting  the  Countess,  and  Mammachen  toiled 
painfully  in  the  rear.  Then  Stubbworth  offered 
her  his  other  arm,  and  she  took  it,  her  maternal 
heart  beating  fast  as  she  saw  Letty's  slender 
figure  close  against  the  Norwegian's  pelisse. 
Mrs.  Dettmar  knew  very  well  that  it  was  not 
conventional  in  Berlin  to  allow  two  young 
people  to  walk  together  like  that ;  but  then, 
did  not  Napoleon  win  his  battles  by  ignoring 
the  Prussian  rules  ? 

The  Phenix  and  Miss  Letty  walked  together, 
therefore,  across  Unter  den  Linden  and  up  the 
silent  Charlotten  Strasse.  They  walked  slowly, 
the  wide  night  above  them,  the  uproar  of  the 
carnival  growing  fainter  behind  them,  and  be 
fore  them  was  the  New  Year.  They  said  little. 
The  obligation  to  which  Miss  Letty  had  struggled 
for  a.  whole  week  to  be  faithful  had  been  sud 
denly,  and  by  no  act  of  hers,  destroyed.  She 
was  certain  that  the  Major  could  not  have 
loved  her,  any  of  the  time;  but  her  chagrin 
was  already  lost.  It  seemed  hours  since  that 
moment  back  in  Friedrich  Strasse ;  that  was  at 
the  Old  Year's  end,  and  now  she  was  living  in 


The  Phenix 


the  New,  as  she  and  Herr  Jarlson  passed  slowly, 
quietly  toward  home. 

As  they  reached  the  pension,  the  others  were 
close  behind.  Herr  Jarlson  unlocked  the  door, 
Miss  Letty  passed  in,  and  he  followed  her. 
The  Countess's  foot  was  already  on  the  lower 
step,  when  Mrs.  Dettmar  stopped. 

"Wait,"  she  said,  "let  us  see  if  we  can't 
still  hear  that  shouting. ' ' 

The  three  listened.  Stubbworth  thought  he 
could  detect  a  distant  murmur ;  the  Countess 
declared  she  could  hear  nothing  at  all ;  Mrs. 
Dettmar  seemed  to  be  in  doubt. 

"Wait,"  she  insisted,  "let  us  listen  once 
more."  But  this  time,  after  a  longer  trial, 
they  all  agreed  that  the  noise  had  died  quite 
away. 

Miss  Letty  and  the  Phenix  were  awaiting 
them  on  the  landing.  Mammachen's  sudden 
curiosity  about  the  shouting  had  given  these 
two  a  minute's  time  together.  A  minute  is 
not  much,  but  it  is  long  enough  for  a  simple 
English  sentence. 

When  Mrs.  Dettmar  and  her  daughter  were 
alone  in  their  room,  the  girl  broke  down. 

"  I  cannot  marry  Major  Vischer,"  she  sobbed, 
hiding  her  face  upon  her  mother's  robust  bosom. 
"  I  do  not  love  him.     I  cannot  love  him." 
203 


The  Phenix 


"  Don't  cry,  Letty,  my  dear,"  said  the 
widow,  gently  stroking  her  daughter's  hot 
cheek,  "don't  cry — don't  cry.  If  that's  the 
way  you  feel  about  him,  Mammachen  will  ar 
range  it — Mammachen  will  arrange  it." 

Mammachen  arranged  it.  Two  years  later, 
when  Dr.  Stubbworth  visited  Berlin  to  get 
material  for  a  new  edition  of  the  Homilies, 
the  Countess  told  him  on  the  night  of  his  ar 
rival  that  his  old  friend  Herr  Jarlson  was  play 
ing  Second  Old  Man  with  great  success  at  the 
Deutsches  Theatre,  and  that  he  might  be  seen 
sitting  by  the  side  of  Mammachen  almost  any 
Sunday  in  the  English  chapel,  gravely  reading 
the  responses.  The  next  morning  Stubbworth 
took  an  early  stroll  in  the  Thiergarten,  and 
whom  should  he  meet  coming  down  the  Sieges 
Allee  but  the  Phenix,  pushing  a  baby  carriage 
with  one  hand,  and  with  a  play  of  Shakespeare 
in  the  other  ! 


204 


The  Commonest  Possible 
Story 


THE  COMMONEST  POSSIBLE 
STORY 

"PHILANDER  ATKINSON,   bachelor  of 

JT  law  and  writer  of  light  verse,  sat  one 
murky  August  evening  in  his  hall -bed  room, 
with  the  gas  turned  low,  wondering  whether 
the  night  would  be  too  hot  for  sleep.  At  a 
quarter  before  ten  a  loitering  messenger-boy 
brought  him  a  line  from  his  friend  Darnel  : 
Come  around  at  once.  Just  back.  The  very 
greatest  news.  Thereupon  Atkinson  discarded 
his  smoking-jacket,  reluctantly  exchanged  his 
slippers  for  shoes,  and  took  the  car  down  to 
Twelfth  Street,  remembering  meanwhile  that 
Darnel's  brief  vacation  from  the  Broadway 
Bank  expired  that  day,  and  speculating  as  to 
the  nature  of  the  great  news  which  the  clerk 
had  brought  back  from  Vermont.  The  lawyer 
was  a  Vermonter,  too,  and  it  was  this  fact,  as 
well  as  a  common  literary  ambition,  that  had 
drawn  the  young  fellows  together  at  first,  long 
before  Philander,  on  the  strength  of  having  two 
207 


Tbe  Commonest  Possible  Story 

triolets  paid  for,  had  moved  up  to  Thirty-first 
Street.  Philander  Atkinson  liked  Darnel, 
admired  his  feverish  energy  and  his  pluck, 
envied  his  acquaintance  with  books.  He  had 
always  persisted  in  thinking  that  Darnel's  sto 
ries  would  sell,  if  only  some  magazine  would 
print  one  for  a  starter ;  and  he  had  patiently 
listened  to  most  of  these  stories,  and  to  some 
of  them  several  times  over.  Yet  Darnel  had 
never  had  any  luck  ;  had  never  had  even  his 
deserts  ;  and  the  sincerity  of  his  congratulations 
whenever  Atkinson's  verses  saw  the  light  al 
ways  caused  Philander  to  feel  a  trifle  awkward. 
He  knew  that  the  indefatigable  clerk  had  two 
or  three  manuscripts  "  out  " — out  in  the  mails 
— when  the  vacation  began,  and  as  he  turned 
in  at  Darnel's  boarding-house  he  had  almost 
persuaded  himself  that  The  ALon  had  accepted 
"  Laki,"  his  friend's  Egyptian  story.  It  was 
a  long  climb  up  to  Darnel's  room,  and  the 
writer  of  light  verse  mounted  deliberately,  be 
ing  fat  with  overmuch  sitting  in  his  office 
chair.  On  the  third  floor  the  air  was  heavy 
with  orange-flowers  and  Bonsilene  roses,  and  a 
caterer  was  carrying  away  ice-boxes.  A  whim 
sical  rhyme  came  into  Philander's  head,  and 
he  made  a  mental  note  of  it.  Just  then  Darnel 
appeared,  leaning  over  the  balustrade  of  the 
208 


The  Commonest  Possible  Story 

fourth  -  floor  landing,  his  coat  off,  his  collar 
visibly  the  worse  for  the  railway  journey,  and 
an  eager  smile  upon  his  thin,  homely  face. 

"  Hullo,  D.,"  said  Philander.  "  Here  I  am. 
Been  having  a  wedding  here  ?  "  he  added  in  a 
low  voice,  as  he  grasped  Darnel's  hand. 

"  I  believe  so.  I'm  just  back.  Come  in, 
Phil.  You  got  my  message  ?  " 

"Why  else  should  I  be  here,  old  fellow? 
Is  it  'Laid,'  sure?  " 

Without  answering,  Darnel  led  the  way  into 
his  tiny  room.  His  trunk  lay  upon  the  floor, 
half  unpacked,  the  folding-bed  was  down,  for 
the  better  accommodation  of  some  of  the 
trunk's  contents,  and  the  desk  in  the  corner, 
under  the  single  jet  of  gas,  was  covered  with 
piles  of  finely  torn  paper.  Darnel's  manner, 
usually  nervous  and  somewhat  conscious,  be 
trayed  a  certain  exhilaration,  but  he  was  under 
perfect  self-control. 

"  '  Laki  ?  '  "  he  said,  seating  himself  in  his 
revolving  chair  and  whirling  around  to  the 
desk,  while  Atkinson  threw  himself  upon  the 
bed,  "'Laki?'  Oh,  I  had  forgotten.  It's 
probably  here."  He  pulled  over  the  mail 
accumulated  during  his  absence.  "Yes." 
He  tore  open  the  big  envelope.  "  '  The  editor 
of  The  ^E on  regrets  to  say,'  etc.  ;  "  and  he 
209 


The  Commonest  Possible  Story 

tossed  the  printed  slip,  with  the  manuscript, 
into  his  waste-basket,  with  a  laugh. 

Atkinson's  heart  sank.  Poor  Darnel ;  it  was 
not  a  cheerful  welcome  home.  But  Darnel 
was  busied  with  his  letters. 

"And  here  are  the  others,"  he  went  on. 
"  I  thank  the  Lord  none  of  them  were  ac 
cepted." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Philander,  turning 
upon  his  elbow. 

Darnel  looked  at  him  with  a  puzzling  smile. 

"That's  why  I  sent  for  you,"  said  he. 
"  Phil,  all  that  I've  been  writing  here  for  three 
years  is  stuff,  and  I've  only  just  found  it  out. 
I  can  do  something  different  now." 

Atkinson  stared.  Darnel  had  rarely  talked 
about  his  own  work,  and  then  in  a  scarcely 
suppressed  fever  of  excitement  and  anxiety. 
Many  a  time  had  Atkinson  noticed  his  big, 
hollow  eyes  turn  darker,  and  his  sallow  face 
grow  ashy,  even  in  reading  over  with  a  shaking 
voice  some  of  that  same  ' '  stuff. ' ' 

"I  have  learned  the  great  secret,"  Darnel 
added,  quietly. 

"  You  have  Aladdin's  ring?  "  said  Atkinson. 
"  Or  are  you  in  love?  " 

"  Both,"  replied  Darnel.  "It  is  the  same 
thing." 

210 


The  Commonest  Possible  Story 

Philander  flung  himself  back  upon  the  pillow, 
with  a  little  laugh.  "  Go  ahead,  D." 

"I  have  found  her,  and  myself.  Let  me 
turn  down  the  gas  a  little ;  I  see  it  hurts  your 
eyes.  I  belong  in  the  world  now ;  I  am  in  the 
heart  of  it — I  said  to  myself  coming  down  the 
river  this  afternoon — in  the  heart  of  the  world. ' ' 
He  lingered  over  the  words.  "  Phil/'  he  ex 
claimed,  suddenly,  "  all  the  time  I  was  trying 
to  write  I  was  really  trying  to  lift  myself  by 
the  boot  -  straps.  I  was  laboring  to  imagine 
things  and  people,  and  to  get  them  on  paper. 
It  was  all  wrong.  Do  you  remember  that 
French  poem  you  read  me  last  winter,  about 
the  idol  and  the  Eastern  princess — how  she  lay 
on  her  couch  sleeping — the  night  was  hot— 
with  the  bronze  idol  gazing  at  her  with  its  por 
phyry  eyes,  while  her  brown  bosom  rose  and 
sank  in  her  sleep,  and  the  porphyry  eyes  kept 
staring  at  her — staring — but  they  never  saw  ? 
Well,  I  believe  my  eyes  have  been  like  that. 
In  'Laki,'  now,  you  know  I  wanted  to  de 
scribe  the  exact  color  of  the  stone  in  the  quar 
ry,  and  asked  the  Egyptologist  up  at  the  Mu 
seum  to  tell  me  what  it  was  ?  He  laughed  at 
me.  Very  well.  It  was  a  dull-red  stone,  with 
bright  -  red  streaks  across  it ;  I  saw  the  same 
thing  in  Troy  this  afternoon,  when  a  hod- 


The  Commonest  Possible  Story 

carrier  fell  five  stories  and  they  picked  him  up 
from  a  pile  of  bricks." 

"  You're  getting  rather  realistic,"  muttered 
Philander.  Darnel  was  not  looking  at  him, 
and  went  on  unheeding. 

"  I  have  but  to  tell  what  I  see.  I  have 
stopped  imagining  ;  my  head  has  ached — Phil, 
you  don't  know  how  it  has  ached — trying  to 
imagine  things.  I  am  past  that  now ;  if  you 
only  shut  your  eyes  and  look,  it  is  all  easy. 
Take  that  old  Edda  story  that  I  tried  to  work 
up,  about  the  fellow  who  fought  all  day  long 
against  his  bride's  father,  and  when  night  came 
the  bride  stole  out  and  raised  all  the  dead  men 
on  both  sides,  by  magic,  so  that  the  next  day, 
and  every  day,  the  battle  raged  on  as  before. 
I  used  to  plan  about  the  magic  she  used,  and 
tried  to  invent  a  charm.  Why,  all  she  did 
was  to  pass  over  the  battle-field  at  night,  where 
the  dead  lay  twisted  in  the  frost,  and  while  the 
wolves  snarled  around  her  and  the  spray  from 
the  fiord  wet  her  cheek,  she  stooped  to  touch 
the  dead  men's  wrists  ;  and  they  loosed  their 
grip  upon  broken  sword  and  split  linden  shield, 
their  breath  came  again,  soft  and  low  like  a 
baby's,  and  so  they  slept  till  the  red  dawn." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Atkinson,  sitting  up  very 
straight,  "you've  been  reading  '  The  Finest 
212 


The  Commonest  Possible  Story 


Story  in  the  World,'  and  it  has  turned  your 
head." 

"  Oh,  the  London  clerk  who  was  conscious 
of  pre-existences,  and  forgot  them  all  when  he 
fell  in  love?  I  could  have  told  Rudyard  Kip 
ling  better  than  that  myself."  Darnel  gave  an 
impatient  whirl  to  the  revolving  chair. 

"You  mean  you  think  you  can,"  replied 
Atkinson,  sharply. 

"As  you  like."  He  spoke  dreamily,  and 
Atkinson  dropped  back  on  the  pillow  again, 
watching  his  friend  as  narrowly  as  the  dim 
light  would  allow.  Hard  work  and  unearthly 
hours  had  told  on  Darnel ;  he  certainly  seemed 
light-headed. 

' '  Sickening  heat  —  black  frost  —  "he  was 
murmuring;  "marching,  stealing,  fighting, 
toiling — joy,  pain — the  life  of  the  race — is  a 
man  to  grow  unconscious  of  these  things  in  the 
moment  that  he  really  enters  the  life  of  the 
race,  that  he  feels  himself  a  part  of  it?  What 
do  you  think,  Phil?" 

"  I  think,"  was  the  slow  reply,  "  that  what 
ever  has  happened  to  you  in  Vermont  has 
shaken  you  up  pretty  well,  old  fellow.  They 
say  that  when  someone  asked  Rachel  how  she 
could  play  Phedre  so  devilishly  well,  she  just 
opened  her  black  Jewish  eyes  and  said,  '  I  have 
213 


The  Commonest  Possible  Story 

seen  her.'  And  I  think,  in  the  mood  you're 
in  now,  you  can  see  as  far  back  as  Rachel  or 
anybody  else.  It's  like  being  opium-drunk  ;  if 
you  could  keep  so,  and  put  on  paper  what  you 
see,  you  could  beat  Kipling  and  all  the  rest  of 
them.  But  you  can't  keep  drunk,  and  you 
can't  write  prose  or  verse  on  love-delirium.  It's 
been  tried." 

"  Suppose  Rachel  had  said,  '  I  am  Phe- 
dre?'  " 

Atkinson  lifted  his  stout  shoulders,  laughing 
uneasily.  "  So  much  the  worse.  I  should  say, 
the  less  pre-existence  of  that  sort  the  better. 
You  might  as  well  tell  me  the  whole  story,  D. 
What  is  her  name  ?  ' ' 

"  In  a  moment.  She  loves  me,  Phil.  She 
is  waiting  for  me  in  her  little  house  among  the 
hills.  I  left  her  only  this  morning,  and  soon  I 
shall  go  back  and  leave  New  York  forever.  I 
can  write  the  story  up  there — the  story  I  have 
dreamed  of  writing — for  I  shall  always  have  the 
secret  of  it.  I  have  but  to  shut  my  eyes  and 
tell  what  I  see ;  and  it  is  because  she  loves  me. 
All  the  life  of  all  the  past  —  I  can  call  that  '  A 
Story  of  the  Road.'  Then  there  will  be  the 
future  to  write  of — the  men  and  women  that 
are  to  come  ;  for  we  shall  have  children,  Phil, 

and  in  them " 

214 


The  Commonest  Possible  Story 


"You're  making  rapid  progress/' ejaculated 
Philander. 

" 1  shall  know  the  story  of  the  future. 

Even  now  I  know  it ;  I  do  not  simply  foresee 
it,  I  see  it.  Why  not  «  A  Story  of  the  Goal !  ' 
For  I  belong  to  it — do  you  not  understand  ? 
Yei,  after  all,  what  is  that  compared  with  the 
present  ?  It  shall  be  '  A  Story  of  the  March  !  ' 
Look  there  !  ' ' 

He  threw  his  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling,  which 
was  brightened  for  an  instant  by  the  headlight 
of  an  elevated  train  as  it  rushed  past. 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  engineer  was  really 
thinking  of  as  he  went  by  ?  That  would  be 
story  enough.  Or  what  was  in  the  heart  of  the 
bride  to-night,  down  on  the  third  landing  — 
you  smelled  the  orange-flowers  as  you  came  up  ? 
To  feel  that  your  heart  is  in  them,  and  theirs 
in  you " 

But  Philander  Atkinson  was  not  listening  to 
the  lover's  rhapsody.  He  was  thinking  of  a 
certain  summer  when  he,  too,  had  had  strange 
fancies  in  his  head ;  when  his  thoughts  played 
backward  and  forward  with  swift  certainty ; 
when  he  had  grown  suddenly  conscious  of  great 
desires  and  deep  affinities,  and  for  a  space  of 
some  three  months  he  had  dreamed  of  being 
something  more  than  a  mere  verse  -  maker,  a 
215 


The  Commonest  Possible  Story 


master  of  the  file.  Then — whether  it  was  that 
she  grew  tired  of  him,  or  they  both  realized  that 
some  dull  mistake  had  been  made  —  it  was  all 
over.  There  was  still  in  his  drawer  a  package 
of  manuscript  he  had  written  that  summer  :  in 
blank  verse,  none  too  noble  a  form  for  the 
high  thoughts  which  then  filled  him ;  in  a 
queer  new  rhythm,  too,  the  secret  of  whose 
beat  he  had  caught  at  and  then  lost,  for  the 
lines  read  harshly  to  him  now.  He  looked 
these  things  over  occasionally,  as  a  sort  of  awful 
example  of  himself  to  himself;  though  he  had 
gone  so  far  as  to  borrow  some  of  their  imagery, 
not  without  a  certain  shame,  to  adorn  his  light 
verse.  His  card-house  had  fallen,  but  some  of 
the  colored  pasteboard  was  pretty  enough  to  be 
used  again.  Curiously,  he  found  that  he  could 
cut  pasteboard  into  more  ingenious  shapes  than 
ever  since  his  brief  experience  in  piling  it ; 
fancy  served  him  better  after  imagination  left 
him  ;  his  triolets  were  admirably  turned,  and 
his  luck  with  the  magazines  began.  Altogether 
it  had  been  an  odd  experience ;  half  those 
crazy  ideas  of  Darnel  had  been  his  two  years 
before,  but  he  was  quite  over  them — yes,  quite 
— and  now  it  was  D.  's  turn.  He  listened  again 
to  something  that  Darnel  was  murmuring. 
"  And  she  is  an  ordinary  woman,  one  would 
216 


The  Commonest  Possible  Story 

say  ;  a  common  woman.  That  is  the  mystery 
and  the  glory  of  it.  I  do  not  know  that  she  is 
even  beautiful.  There  must  be  thousands  of 
women  like  her ;  I  can  see  it  plainly  enough, 
that  there  must  be  thousands  of  women  in  the 
world  like  her."  There  was  a  reverent  hush  in 
his  voice. 

Atkinson  choked  back  an  exclamation.  Was 
D".  's  head  really  turned  ?  "A  common  woman' ' 
— "not  know  whether  she  is  beautiful?"  A 
face  rose  before  him,  unlike  any  face  in  all  the 
world  :  eyes  with  the  blue  of  Ascutney,  when 
you  look  at  it  through  ten  miles  of  autumn 
haze ;  hair  brown  as  the  chestnut  leaf  in  late 
October ;  mouth 

Philander  trembled  slightly,  and  rising  to  his 
feet,  stood  looking  down  at  Darnel,  haggardly. 
It  was  quite  over,  that  experience  of  two  sum 
mers  before,  but  while  it  lasted  he  had  at  least 
never  dreamed  that  there  were  thousands  of 
women  in  the  world  like  her. 

"  Sit  down,  Phil,  I  am  almost  through.  A 
woman  like  other  women,  and  the  story,  when 
I  write  it,  a  common  story.  It  will  be  the 
commonest  possible  story  ;  common  as  a  rose, 
common  as  a  child.  I  am  going  back  to  Ver 
mont,  where  I  was  born,  and  where  I  have 
been  born  anew.  There  will  be  plenty  of  time 
217 


The  Commonest  Possible  Story 

for  the  story — years,  and  years,  and  years.  I 
have  only  to  close  my  eyes  some  day,  and  she 
will  write  down  all  I  tell  her,  and  I  shall  call 
the  story  hers  and  mine." 

But  Atkinson  still  stood,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  his  heavy  figure  stooping,  the  lines 
hardening  in  his  face,  while  he  watched  the 
rapt  gaze  of  Darnel,  and  drearily  reflected  how 
strange  it  was  that  a  woman  should  open  all  the 
gates  of  the  wonder- world  to  one  man's  imag 
ination,  and  that  some  other  woman  should 
close  those  secret  gates,  quietly,  inexorably, 
upon  that  man's  friend. 

"  Wait,"  said  Darnel.  "  Must  you  go  back 
to  your  triolets  ?  Let  me  show  you  her  picture 
first."  He  turned  the  gas  up  to  its  fullest 
height,  and  held  out  a  photograph. 

It  was  the  same  woman. 


218 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


AN   INCORRIGIBLE   POET 

IT  was  the  very  end  of  summer,  and  there 
were  yellowing  leaves  upon  the  lower 
branches  of  the  birches  that  lined  a  narrow  val 
ley  in  the  Vosges.  But  not  a  leaf  was  stirring 
in  the  dead  air  of  the  late  forenoon,  and  Philan 
der  Atkinson,  American  poet,  climbed  slowly 
and  with  some  weariness  along  the  bed  of  the 
shrunken  stream.  He  was  thinner  than  three 
years  before,  when  he  had  had  that  strange  talk 
with  his  friend  Darnel,  and  had  shortly  after 
sailed  for  Europe  without  even  bidding  Darnel 
good-by.  This  last  June  the  fever  had  clutched 
him  at  Capri.  All  through  July  and  August  he 
had  lain  in  a  hospital  on  the  hill-slope  above 
Naples,  and  it  was  only  within  two  weeks  that 
he  had  felt  able  to  get  North  again,  and  to  try 
a  walking-trip,  by  easy  stages,  in  lower  Alsace. 
To-day  he  shifted  his  knapsack  restlessly.  The 
glare  of  the  sun  made  him  dizzy  after  a  while 
and  he  wondered  if  he  had  quite  thrown  off  the 
fever. 

221 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


Just  then  the  valley  narrowed  to  a  gorge ; 
the  birches  and  the  sunlight  fell  away  together, 
and  the  shadow  of  huge  fir-trees  blackened  the 
creeping  surface  of  a  pool.  At  its  head  the 
streamlet  slipped  almost  noiselessly  over  bright- 
beaded  moss,  at  its  foot  the  overflow  trickled 
away  again  beneath  an  arch  of  heavy  masonry, 
while  right  and  left  through  the  sombre  firs 
stretched  a  Roman  wall.  Rome  again  !  At 
kinson  threw  off  his  knapsack  and  drank  of  the 
shadowed  water,  then  lay  back  listlessly  against 
the  gray  wall.  Rome  again  ! 

There  was  no  escaping  her.  Wherever  he 
had  wandered  in  Europe  he  had  found  the  arch 
or  the  road,  the  word  or  law,  that  spoke  still 
of  the  world's  mistress.  When  he  first  land 
ed  he  scarcely  thought  of  the  Mediterranean 
countries.  A  sudden  legacy  had  set  him  free 
from  the  pretence  of  calling  himself  a  law 
yer,  and  he  had  taken  passage  for  Germany 
with  the  duplicate  proofs  of  his  first  volume  of 
verses  in  his  bag.  To  the  second  edition,  is 
sued  the  following  autumn,  he  had  added,  "  In 
Heine's  Land,"  poems  on  German  themes. 
For  the  Muses  had  been  gracious  to  Philander, 
and  keeping  him  far  from  the  Germandom 
of  lecture-rooms  and  barracks,  had  sent  him 
into  Thuringia  and  the  Hartz,  the  Black  Forest 

222 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


and  the  Bavarian  Alps,  the  last  refuge-places  of 
Romance.  Critical  notices  of  "In  Heine's 
Land ' '  which  reached  him  from  time  to  time 
praised  the  advance  upon  the  cleverness,  the 
mere  brightness,  of  his  earlier  verse.  His  touch 
was  certainly  softer,  and  now  and  then  he 
struck  a  deeper  note  than  had  been  his  wont 
since  he  began  to  publish.  In  Bavaria  he  al 
ways  went  to  church.  An  old  priest  who  was 
his  companion  for  a  week  at  a  Salzburg  inn 
thought  him  ripe  for  conversion,  and  Atkinson 
did  indeed  come  to  the  conviction  that  some  of 
his  walk  and  conversation  with  Darnel  in  New 
York  had  been  rather  godless.  A  new  world  of 
emotional  life  opened  before  him.  He  com 
prehended  instinctively,  as  he  thought,  such 
apparently  separate  phenomena  as  the  South 
German  peasant,  the  early  drawings  of  Durer, 
and  the  heart-breaking  change  of  key  in  Heine's 
songs.  Back  of  the  thirteenth  century  his 
mind  rarely  wandered,  nor  very  far  forward  into 
the  nineteenth,  and  he  thought  seriously  of 
renting  a  couple  of  rooms  in  Marburg  Castle  and 
settling  down  to  the  new  dream  of  his  life,  the 
revivification  of  romantic  poetry. 

Then,  one  restless  day,  he  promised  a  friend, 
a  young  Australian  painter,  to  spend  the  next 
winter  on  the  Nile.     It  was  an  evil  hour  for 
223 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


Philander,  and  the  guardian  Muses  must  have 
slept.  Little  by  little  the  North  faded  from 
his  mind :  its  art,  its  serious  faith,  his  own  im 
aginative  impulse — all  these  grew  unreal  under 
the  Egyptian  sky.  But  he  never  wrote  such 
facile  verse  as  on  the  deck  of  the  dhahabiyeh, 
pipe  in  mouth,  with  the  Australian  forever 
interrupting  him  to  discuss  color-values.  He 
discovered  that  three  or  four  dozen  Arabic 
words  enlarged  his  rhyme  -  list  marvellously, 
and  that  his  readers  liked  that  sort  of  thing. 
"Oriental  Overtones,"  a  collection  that  his 
publishers  issued  in  the  spring  at  a  dollar  and  a 
quarter,  the  cover  ornamented  with  a  pink  camel 
squatting  before  a  blue  pyramid,  was  lauded  for 
its  gorgeous  imagery  and  sonorous  diction,  and 
netted  poor  Philander  in  the  first  six  months 
the  munificent  sum  of  twenty-seven  dollars  and 
a  half.  Poor  Philander  —  for  the  Australian 
told  him  that  the  "Overtones"  were  "rot," 
and  he  knew  it  well  enough  himself. 

They  parted  in  Syria,  the  American  journey 
ing  westward,  along  a  Roman  road.  But  he 
lingered  on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean, 
for  here  he  made  new  discoveries  in  himself. 
He  found  a  sense  of  beauty  impatient  of  mys 
tery  or  awe,  a  feeling  for  the  harmony  of  line, 
a  satisfaction  in  subtleties  of  light  and  shade. 
224 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


He  gazed  at  blue  water  and  volcanic  headland 
and  graying  temple  until  he  felt  that  his  eye 
was  right  at  last.  An  enthusiasm  for  the  clas 
sics,  forgotten  since  his  school-days,  awoke  in 
him.  There  was  no  use  in  trying  to  write  like 
Byron  or  even  like  Uhland,  but  he  really 
thought,  after  two  months  in  Sicily,  that  he 
could  imitate  Theocritus.  At  least  he  translated 
Theocritus,  then  turned  to  Virgil  and  Horace 
again,  steadied  his  sense  of  form,  trained  him 
self  into  a  cool  paganism  of  temper,  and  wrote 
verses  delicate  yet  firm  in  outline  as  the  sculpt 
ures  on  a  sarcophagus.  Henceforward  he  de 
termined  to  be  a  classicist,  to  restrict  the  quan 
tity  of  his  poetry,  to  be  less  lavish  with  its 
hues,  less  individual  in  its  form,  but  to  aim  at 
perfection.  He  quite  outgrew,  as  he  supposed, 
that  transient  medievalism.  His  dreams  went 
backward  to  the  lovely  Graeco-Roman  world, 
and  forward  too,  for  one  day,  on  the  rocks  at 
Capri,  he  saw  more  clearly  than  ever  before 
what  might,  with  good  fortune,  be  his  place 
among  twentieth-century  poets.  And  the  next 
day  the  fever  took  him.  Rome  and  Sicily, 
Marburg  and  the  Nile,  alternated  with  one 
another  in  his  delirium  for  weeks  and  weeks, 
while  the  sisters  of  the  hospital  counted  quiet 
prayers  for  him,  pagan  as  he  was. 
225 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


It  was  of  all  this  that  Philander  was  thinking, 
as  he  lay  there  in  the  Alsatian  valley,  with  his 
head  against  a  Roman  wall.  The  coolness  of 
the  place  was  infinitely  restful,  and  the  fir-forest 
brought  back  many  an  outworn  dream.  He 
watched  the  eddies  of  the  pool  circle  away  from 
a  broad  rock  that  lay  mid-stream,  its  top  al 
most  touched  by  the  stealthy  water,  and  thought 
of  the  folk  -  lore  of  the  North,  the  stories  of 
Undine  and  of  the  water-sprites,  the  maidens 
of  the  spring  and  nymphs  of  the  wave,  and 
thence  his  mind  wandered  aimlessly  to  the  sea- 
goddesses  of  the  South.  Scarcely  could  he 
keep  his  eyelids  apart,  so  drowsy  had  he  grown, 
and  he  smiled  drowsily  at  his  own  fancies,  and 
wished  the  fever  had  left  his  head  steadier  for 
these  long  mornings  in  the  Alsatian  sun. 

All  at  once  she  was  there — her  feet  just  free 
from  the  clear  ripples  which  washed  that  broad 
rock  in  the  middle  of  the  pool,  the  water  still 
trickling  from  her  glistening  limbs  and  luminous 
body,  and  dripping  from  her  upraised  arms  as 
she  knotted  her  wet  yellow  hair.  Then  she 
leaned  forward,  with  fingers  clasped  about  her 
rounded  knees,  her  friendly  blue  eyes  fixed 
upon  Philander,  and  a  slight  inscrutable  smile 
upon  the  full  contented  lips. 
226 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


"  My  brother  " — she  said,  and  he  knew  her 
at  that  word,  and  his  breath  came  slower.  It 
was  no  maiden  of  the  spring,  nor  wave-born 
goddess  of  the  doves  ;  she  was  the  calm  Classic 
Muse  whose  inspiration  he  had  sought  at  many 
a  lonely  place  and  quiet  hour  on  the  shore  of 
the  Mediterranean. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  something,  my  brother? 
I  have  known  you  a  long  while,  ever  since  that 
day  at  Brindisi,  when  you  thought  you  turned 
your  back  forever  on  the  North.  I  pitied  you 
at  Capri  for  your  fruitless  gazing  across  the 
water,  and  I  wished  to  come  to  you  in  your 
fever,  while  the  black-robed  sisters  were  asleep. 
But  it  is  better  that  I  waited  until  now.  Do 
you  not  know,  poor  boy,  that  it  is  all  in  vain 
that  you  seek  me?  You  were  born  too  late, 
and  I,  who  am  very  old — you  need  not  smile — 
know  very  well  that  no  hour  comes  twice,  not 
even  to  us  of  the  timeless  world.  There  were 
two  men  in  this  century  of  yours  who  might 
perhaps  have  given  themselves  to  me  utterly. 
One  was  a  Jew  boy  who  fell  in  love  with  his 
cousin  and  broke  his  heart,  so  that  I  could  not 
teach  him  a  single  note,  though  he  and  I  sat  to 
gether  one  noon  in  the  Hartz  forest,  and  he 
used  to  cry  out  for  me  passionately  now  and 
then.  The  other  was  a  tall  Englishman  whose 
227 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


heart  was  troubled  about  his  God,  so  that  he 
could  look  at  me  only  for  a  moment,  though  I 
drew  near  him  more  than  once  in  the  high 
Alps.  They  were  born  too  late,  like  you,  and 
into  a  world  which  is  not  mine.  But  what 
matters  it  ?  Each  to  his  own  world.  Why  do 
you  give  yourself  the  fever  ?  I  love  you,  my 
brother  of  this  strange  new  age,  but  you  must 
never  try  to  behold  me  any  more.  You  have 
your  own  world,  and  I  am  told  it  is  a  brave 
one  :  why  do  you  look  back  ?  ' ' 

Atkinson  opened  his  eyes  slowly.  The  stream- 
'let  was  still  murmuring  over  the  moss,  but  no 
voice  mingled  with  its  tune ;  upon  the  broad 
rock  a  gray  bird  was  tilting,  and  the  beautiful 
nude  form  no  longer  gleamed  against  the  brown 
shadows.  He  sprang  to  his  feet.  His  head 
felt  strangely  clear.  The  dizziness  had  gone, 
as  if  the  lingering  Italian  fever  had  been  exor 
cised  by  his  draught  from  the  mountain  stream, 
but  a  lassitude  had  taken  its  place.  He  knew 
he  had  been  dreaming,  yet  he  felt  ten  years 
older  than  when  he  had  flung  himself  down 
against  that  lichen-covered  wall.  Something 
was  broken  in  him.  He  remembered  each  syl 
lable  that  had  fallen  from  those  musical,  sensu 
ous  lips,  and  for  an  instant  his  own  heart  lay 
228 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


open  before  him  as  the  water  -  deeps.  The 
dream-divinity  was  right  :  no  hour  comes  twice. 
The  hour  for  that  fair  Graeco-Roman  world  was 
past,  and  not  even  a  poet  could  bring  it  back 
again,  or  strive  to  tarry  in  it  save  to  his  own 
hurt.  How  blind  he  had  been,  ever  since  that 
day  at  Brindisi  ! 

Mechanically  he  shouldered  his  knapsack, 
and  started  up  the  valley.  His  feet  stumbled 
once  and  again  upon  the  narrow  path,  and  he 
wondered  if  he  had  strength  enough  to  finish 
the  climb  to  Ueber-See-und-Thal  —  a  famous 
monastery  once,  then  a  convent,  but  half  secu 
larized  now  and  become  a  show-place.  The 
rocky  wall  of  the  gorge  kept  crowding  closer 
upon  the  thin  stream,  sliding  inertly  from  pool 
to  pool.  The  air  was  heavy  with  balsamic 
odors;  at  every  turn  in  the  path  there  was 
something  to  remind  Philander  of  that  world  of 
romance  which  had  so  long  held  him  captive. 
It  was  like  getting  home  again.  Here  was  a 
hollow  under  the  cliffs  fit  for  a  Siegfried's  drag 
on  ;  there  a  lonely  rock-walled  glade  like  the 
one  in  the  incantation  scene  of  "  Der  Frei- 
schlitz. ' '  Airs  of  operas,  bits  of  poetry,  whimsi 
cal  legends,  slipped  back  into  his  mind  as  if 
they  had  never  been  absent  from  it.  As  he 
neared  the  valley's  head  there  was  a  view  back- 
229 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


ward  through  the  jagged  fir-trees,  past  the  sunlit 
hazy  slopes  of  birch  and  beech,  and  out  upon 
the  wide  Rhine-plain,  misty  even  in  high  noon  ; 
and  there  was  a  charm,  a  mysterious  fascination 
about  it  all,  after  those  clear,  pale  distances  in 
Italy  ! 

But  he  was  too  weary  to  stand  looking,  and 
pushed  on  across  the  hot  pasture-land  and  up 
to  the  walls  of  Ueber  -  See  -mid-  Thai.  The 
path  led  him  close  to  the  door  of  the  lower 
chapel,  and  he  loosened  his  knapsack  and  went 
in.  His  guide-book  had  told  him  that  the 
chapel  to  Mary  of  the  Fir-tree  was  very  old,  yet 
he  was  scarcely  prepared  for  the  crudeness  and 
simplicity  that  marked  the  interior,  as  his  eye 
grew  accustomed  to  its  twilight.  The  sand 
stone  statue  of  the  Virgin  belonged  to  the  ear 
liest  period  of  Northern  sculpture ;  the  black 
font  was  worn  deeply  at  the  side  by  centuries  of 
finger-touches ;  the  rude  benches  of  darkened 
pine  were  soiled  with  the  candle-drippings  of 
Alsatian  pilgrims.  Faith  was  still  unshaken  in 
this  nook  of  the  Vosges.  Before  the  tawdry, 
pitiful  altar  was  crouching  an  old  woman,  her  face 
bowed  to  her  knees,  her  crooked  fingers  trem 
bling  over  her  rosary ;  and  the  huge  stone  pillar 
by  the  door,  built  when  Barbarossa  was  a  child, 
was  hung  around  with  votive  offerings — poor 
230 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


little  tin  figures  of  broken  limbs,  and  waxen 
hearts,  and  yellowing  slips  of  paper  laboriously 
written  with  "  Pray  for  Me,"  "  Pray  for  Us," 
"  Dear  Mary  of  the  Fir-tree,  I  am  Thankful." 
Philander  murmured  the  words  softly  to  him 
self,  before  he  went  out. 

A  few  sisters  of  the  suppressed  religious  order 
had  been  allowed  to  remain  at  Ueber-See-und- 
Thal  to  provide  for  the  wants  of  the  pilgrims 
and  sight-seers,  and  the  American  was  shown  to 
the  refectory  and  served  with  a  dinner  of  boiled 
beef  and  turnips,  with  black  bread  and  the  white 
wine  of  Oberhausbergen.  The  nun  who  waited 
upon  him  had  a  round,  childish  face,  with  eyes 
serious  as  a  Madonna's  and  of  a  brown  that  he 
had  never  seen  outside  of  the  Black  Forest. 
She  spoke  French  badly.  Philander  watched 
her,  and  as  he  finished  the  simple  meal,  pointed 
to  the  open  door  of  the  refectory. 

Far  below  was  the  Rhine,  and  beyond  it,  al 
most  hidden  in  the  haze,  there  were  dim  moun 
tain  lines. 

"That  is  the  Hornisgriinde  over  there,  is  it 
not?  "  he  asked,  in  the  Black  Forest  dialect. 

A  startled  look  came  into  her  eyes,  and  her 
grave  mouth  grew  curiously  wistful. 

"  Certainly,"  she  answered,  in  the  same 
drawling  gutturals,  without  following  the  direc- 
231 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


tion  of  his  hand.  "  That  is  the  Hornisgrimde. ' ' 
She  paused  a  moment  in  embarrassment.  "I 
thought  you  were  not  French.  The  gentleman 
is  an  American." 

"  But  I  have  lived  in  the  Black  Forest,"  as 
serted  Philander,  "  for  months  and  months." 

"And  I  was  born  there."  She  glanced 
toward  the  doorway  now,  as  if  scarcely  con 
scious  of  the  stranger's  presence. 

"I  was  sure  of  it.  And  how  came  you 
here?" 

He  had  gone  too  far.  She  turned  to  him, 
almost  with  terror. 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  cried.  "  You  must  not  ask. 
I  have  been  here  a  long  time,  and — I  am  very 
happy." 

Philander  lifted  his  eyebrows.  "Do  you 
mean  that  ?  "  he  remarked,  quietly. 

For  answer  she  looked  away  from  him,  and 
gathered  up  the  empty  dishes  without  a  word. 

When  she  returned  she  brought  his  coffee, 
and  spoke  French. 

' '  Would  Monsieur  not  prefer  to  take  coffee 
upon  the  terrace?  The  view  is  very  beautiful, 
and  people  come  a  long  distance  to  see  it." 

He  rose  and  walked  to  the  doorway,  the  nun 
following  with  a  sugar-bowl  and  a  tiny  flask  of 
chartreuse.  The  blazing  sunlight  made  him 
232 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


hesitate.  He  turned  irresolutely,  and  took  a 
long  look  at  the  cool,  dim  refectory,  with  its 
dark  oak  timbers  and  whitewashed  walls,  and  at 
the  Black  Forest  woman,  with  her  calm  eyes — 
and  her  mask  of  French  —  and  her  unknown 
history. 

"Why  do  you  look  back?"  she  asked, 
naively. 

Philander  was  strangely  moved  ;  those  were 
the  very  words  spoken  by  the  smiling  goddess 
of  his  morning  dream  ;  but  could  he  not  linger 
even  in  the  shadow-land  of  Romance  ?  He 
made  no  answer. 

"  There  is  a  breeze  under  the  linden  by  the 
north  door,"  she  went  on,  "  and  there  are  tables 
there.  I  will  show  you." 

He  followed,  without  noticing  whither  she 
was  taking  him.  "  There,  Monsieur,"  she  said, 
"here  is  the  coffee,  and  the  sugar,  and  the 
liqueur,  and — "  in  a  lower  voice — "here  are 
some  Americans — adieu  !  " 

Philander  raised  his  eyes.  It  was  too  late 
to  retreat,  and  besides  he  recognized  Virginia 
Johnson,  a  former  table  companion  at  the 
boarding-house  on  Twelfth  Street.  She  was  a 
student  at  the  Art  League  then,  on  the  eve  of 
going  to  Paris.  . 

"  Why,  Mr.  Atkinson  !  "  she  cried,  dropping 

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the  illustrated  paper  she  was'perusing,  and  put 
ting  out  her  hand  joyfully,  "  this  is  delightful. " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Atkinson,  rescuing  her 
paper  from  its  dangerous  proximity  to  her  coffee- 
cup.  ' '  You  still  read  Life,  I  see. ' ' 

"Of  course.  'While  there's  Life,  there's 
hope. '  Do  you  remember  the  triolet  ?  Or 
have  we  forgotten  our  humble  beginnings,  sir?  " 

It  seemed  natural  to  have  Virginia  Johnson 
chaff  him. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  haven't  forgotten. 
That  triolet  in  Life  was  the  first  thing  of  mine 
to  be  accepted,  and  I  have  never  doubted  that 
it  was  your  thumbnail  sketch  that  made  them 
take  it.  And — excuse  me — wasn't  that  your 
first  acceptance  too?  And  the  week  it  came 
out  you  got  the  number  first  and  gave  it  to  me 
at  dinner,  with  <  While  there's  Life,  there's 
hope  '  marked  in  red." 

She  bowed  with  mock  gravity.  ' '  You  de 
serve  your  fame,  Mr.  Atkinson.  You  are  loyal 
to  that  dear  old  boarding-house.  Let  me  in 
troduce  you  to  my  father. ' ' 

An  elderly  gentleman  in  gray,  with  a  felt  hat 
pushed  well  back  upon  his  bald  head,  laid 
down  his  newspaper  and  set  his  eyeglasses 
higher  upon  his  nose. 

"This    is    Mr.   Atkinson,    papa — Mr.   Phi- 

234 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


lander  Atkinson."  She  repeated  the  words 
impressively,  as  if  hoping  that  her  father  would 
recognize  a  name  already  distinguished  in  the 
world  of  minor  poetry.  But  Mr.  Johnson 
shook  hands  in  utter  innocence  of  the  honor 
conferred  upon  him,  and  was  conscious  only  of 
the  pleasure  in  meeting  a  fellow-citizen. 

"  Glad  to  know  you,"  he  said.  "  I  tell  you 
it  seems  good  to  find  an  American  over  here. 
Haven't  seen  one  since  we  left  Heidelberg; 
there  were  lots  of  'em  there.  That  was  a  week 
ago,  wasn't  it,  Virginia?  " 

"  Three  days,"  replied  the  girl,  smiling. 

"  Well,  it's  long  enough,  anyhow.  There 
are  nice  places  here  in  Europe,  Mr.  Atkinson, 
but  a  man  gets  kind  of  lonesome,  doesn't  he?  " 

"  Sometimes,"  admitted  Atkinson,  putting  a 
lump  of  sugar  into  his  coffee. 

"Exactly.  I  should  say  he  did!  My 
daughter,  now,  has  been  over  here  five  years, 
and  says  she  hasn't  been  homesick  once.  I 
don't  understand  it ;  "  and  he  shook  his  bald 
head  dubiously. 

"  Papa  has  been  away  from  New  Jersey  ex 
actly  five  weeks,"  commented  Miss  Johnson. 
"We  have  made  I  don't  know  how  many 
business  calls  on  woollen  manufacturers — what 
comical  times  we  have  had  ! — and  now  I  want 

235 


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him  to  go  to  Normandy  for  a  month — to  see 
some  of  the  places  where  I've  sketched,  you 
know — and  he  insists  upon  our  taking  the 
steamer  next  Saturday.  Can't  you  talk  to  him, 
Mr.  Atkinson?  " 

The  man  of  woollens  smiled  imperturbably, 
and  took  out  a  couple  of  cigars.  "  I  wish 
you'd  try  one  of  those,"  he  said.  "  I  brought 
over  a  couple  of  boxes;  Virginia  has  been 
managing  the  custom-house  end  of  it.  And 
here's  a  Sun,  if  you  like  ;  we  got  our  papers  at 
Miihlhausen  last  night,  and  haven't  had  time  to 
read  'em  until  now.  Nine  days  from  New 
York  to  Miihlhausen  isn't  so  bad,  eh  ?  " 

But  Philander  declined  the  newspaper.  The 
talk  drifted  to  Miss  Virginia's  art-studies  in 
Paris,  and  by  and  by  Mr.  Johnson  dropped  out 
of  it,  and  buried  himself  contentedly  in  the 
New  York  stock  quotations.  Atkinson  found 
himself  studying  the  girl  curiously  as  she 
chatted  on.  Was  she  the  little  Miss  Johnson 
of  five  years  back,  who  used  to  come  in  from 
Newark  for  five  days  in  the  week,  and  spar  with 
Darnel  and  himself  at  dinner-time  ?  She  must 
have  been  barely  eighteen  then,  but  had  already 
learned  to  manage  her  gray  eyes  with  absolute 
accuracy  and  irreproachable  composure.  She 
had  been  on  fire  for  Art,  but  as  to  everything 

236 


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else  cool  as  a  woman  of  thirty.  When  Phi- 
lander's  triolet,  illustrated  with  her  sketch,  had 
been  accepted  by  Life,  he  had  grown  distinctly 
sentimental  over  their  joint  production,  but  she 
laughed  him  down  to  a  prose  level  in  no  time, 
and  pocketed  her  half  of  the  eight  dollars  with 
a  most  professional  air.  There  was  no  non 
sense,  Darnel  had  once  remarked  oracularly, 
about  Virginia  Johnson ;  and  when  her  father 
sent  her  to  Paris,  even  the  most  acrimonious 
woman  among  the  Twelfth  Street  boarders 
found  nothing  to  criticise  in  her  conduct,  and 
could  not  help  wishing  her  well. 

And  this,  Atkinson  reflected,  as  he  watched 
the  radiant  creature  opposite  him,  was  little 
Miss  Johnson  !  She  was  grown  taller  now  and 
more  womanly  in  figure ;  her  hair  was  done  up 
differently,  as  far  as  the  Paris  hat  would  allow 
him  to  observe,  and  instead  of  the  faint,  clear 
color  that  she  had  had  that  winter  in  New  York, 
her  face  was  full-blooded  and  sun-browned,  for 
she  had  been  painting  in  the  open  air  since 
May.  Her  eyes  only  were  unchanged,  but  even 
they  seemed  more  brilliant  than  of  old.  For  a 
poor  fellow  just  escaped  from  the  black-robed 
sisters  of  a  hospital,  Miss  Johnson's  travelling 
gown  was  a  miracle  of  Parisian  audacity.  Its 
color  reinforced  her  eyes'  peculiar  gray,  and 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


the  long  suede  gloves  that  lay  by  the  Life  upon 
the  little  table  were  exactly  the  shade  of  her 
coiled  hair.  More  marvellous  still  to  the  jaded 
spirits  of  Philander,  was  the  pulse-beat  of  a 
strong  personality  beneath  this  feminine  and 
sophisticated  charm.  Through  the  clearness 
of  her  gay  voice  there  was  the  subtle  thrill 
that  comes  only  with  the  consciousness  of 
success.  He  remembered  now  that  his  friend 
the  Australian,  when  fresh  from  Paris,  had  told 
him  about  some  medal  or  other  that  Virginia 
Johnson  had  won,  and  he  wondered  why  he 
had  not  paid  more  attention  at  the  time.  But 
there  was  something  more  than  medal-winning 
back  of  that  unobtrusive  faith  in  herself. 

' '  And  yet  you  are  going  back  to  New  York  ? ' ' 
he  said  rather  discontentedly,  as  she  finished  an 
exposition  of  the  latest  impressionist  fad. 

"Of  course,"  she  replied.  "I've  already 
rented  my  studio.  Why  not  ?  ' ' 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  What's  the  use?  "  he 
asked,  suddenly. 

She  looked  grave.  ' '  Have  you  done  anything 
since  i  Oriental  Overtones  '?  " 

' '  You  saw  those  ?  ' ' 

"Most  certainly."  She  did  not  tell  him 
that  she  had  cut  the  verses  from  the  American 
papers  wherever  she  had  found  them,  and  had 

238 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


cherished  them  for  old  acquaintance'  sake, 
though  knowing  perhaps  better  than  anyone  how 
bad  they  really  were. 

"  Yes,  I  have  done  a  good  deal  since  then. 
But  a  very  beautiful  woman — and  a  person  who 
ought  to  know,  I  suppose — intimated  to  me  no 
longer  ago  than  this  morning  that  I  have  been 
tarrying  among  the  tombs."  His  eyes  were 
half-closed  as  he  spoke,  and  he  heard  again  the 
plash  of  water  into  the  pool  by  the  Roman  wall. 
But  there  was  a  sort  of  mockery  in  his  voice  that 
Miss  Johnson  did  not  like. 

< '  Where  have  you  been  this  summer  ?  ' '  she 
asked,  somewhat  at  random. 

"  Since  June,  up  to  two  weeks  ago,  in  a  Naples 
hospital.  It  was  not  particularly  cheerful.  Be 
fore  that  I  was  at  Capri,  and  Paestum,  and 
Taormina." 

"I  did  not  know  you  had  been  ill!" 
exclaimed  Miss  Johnson.  "  Why  did  you  not 
let "  She  stopped,  flushing  a  little.  "Any 
one  of  the  Paris  boys  would  have  gone  down. 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself!  And 
there  was  nothing  about  it  in  the  papers  from 
home." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  such  is  fame  !  " 

"  But  what  lovely  places  you  have  seen,"  said 
the  young  woman,  with  a  change  of  tone. 

239 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


"  Yes,  if  you  don't  take  the  fever,"  he  replied 
quietly.  "And  if  you  don't  try  to  raise  the 
dead  to  life. ' ' 

It  occurred  to  Miss  Johnson  that  the  fever 
might  not  have  altogether  left  Mr.  Atkinson's 
brain.  Involuntarily  she  glanced  toward  her 
father,  who  had  strolled  away  to  the  edge  of  the 
terrace,  and  was  trying  to  focus  a  field-glass  upon 
the  haze-hidden  spire  of  the  Strasburg  cathedral. 

"  Did  you  happen  to  see  '  In  Heine's  Land'  ?  " 
asked  Atkinson. 

She  nodded. 

' '  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  you  thought 
of  it.  Really  thought  of  it,  I  mean  ;  just  as  you 
did  of  the  triolet  before  we  sent  it  to  Life. ' ' 

She  remembered,  all  too  distinctly,  the  fun 
she  had  made  of  his  triolet,  but  he  was  appeal 
ing  now  to  her  candor  as  well  as  her  artistic 
sense. 

"  I  thought  there  were  beautiful  things  '  In 
Heine's  Land,'  "  she  said,  hesitatingly  ;  "  very 
gentle  and  very  perfect  in  feeling.  I  was  reminded 
of  one  of  them  this  morning — may  I  say  so  ? — 
when  we  were  in  the  lower  chapel  and  I  read  to 
papa  some  of  those  prayers  hung  upon  the  pillar. 
Do  you  remember  your  own  poem  about  one  of 
those  ill-spelled  prayers  ?  Then  you  ought  to,  if 
you  please  !  And  yet — you  know  you  asked 
240 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


me  to  say  it,  Mr.  Atkinson — is  it  really  the  best 
work  you  can  do?  Isn't  it  too  foreign,  too 
mediaeval,  somehow  ?  I  know  those  old  German 
motifs  are  the  loveliest  things  in  the  world, 
almost ;  they  make  me  cry,  and  yet  all  the  time 
I  can't  help  thinking  that  they  are  not  for  us. 
Haven't  we  something  better  ?  An  artist  simply 
must  not  hark  back — you  should  have  heard  our 
boys  in  Normandy  talk  that  to  each  other  !  You 
see  one  can't,  if  one  wants  to,  and — you  will 
forgive  me,  won't  you? — wouldn't  it  be  better 
not  to  try  ?  " 

She  was  leaning  across  the  table. 

"  I  daresay,"  he  said,  wearily,  yet  wondering 
a  little  why  she  had  cared  enough  for  his  work  to 
tell  him  the  truth  about  it,  and  not  quite  free 
from  the  masculine  fondness  for  a  pretty  woman's 
preaching;  "but  if  a  man  is  going  to  accom 
plish  anything,  he  must  do  the  best  he  knows  at 
the  time." 

"Most  certainly!"  she  cried.  "I  don't 
mean  that  it  wasn't  worth  doing,  then,  if  you 
were  in  the  mood.  I  never  saw  anything  more 
touching  than  those  bits  of  paper  in  the  chapel. 
And  I  wanted  immensely  to  sketch  that  nun  who 
waited  on  us  at  dinner.  You  see  I  make  that 
concession  to  Romance  !  Yet  I  imagine  the 
poor  cieature,  in  spite  of  her  face,  is  prosaic 
241 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


enough  at  bottom.  It's  partly  her  robe,  you 
know,  and  the  half-light  of  the  refectory." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Philander,  "  but  you  should 
.have  seen  her  eyes  fill  when  I  spoke  to  her  in 
German.  She  comes  from  over  there" — he 
nodded  toward  the  Rhine — "  and  she  has  a  his 
tory,  or  she  never  would  have  left  the  Schwarz- 
wald  for  the  Vosges. ' ' 

Miss  Johnson  was  silent. 

"It's  a  little  thing  like  that,"  he  went  on, 
impetuously,  with  a  subdued  passion  in  his  voice, 
"  that  makes  me  imagine  there  is  still  a  place 
for  poetry  in  the  world.  Here  and  there  is  an 
unspoiled  corner  of  it,  like  Ueber-See-und-Thal, 
but  there  are  not  many  of  them  left.  Did  you 
know  there  was  a  railway  tunnel  beneath  the 
rock  where  the  Lorelei  used  to  sing  ?  ' ' 

"No,"  she  answered,  slowly,  "but  do  you 
not  suppose,  Sir  Poet,  that  you  could  find  wom 
en  reclining  in  those  railway  carriages  who  are 
all  the  Lorelei  was,  and  more  ?  ' ' 

"You  are  talking  like  Archie  Darnel  now," 
said  Atkinson,  dryly,  but  his  heart  beat  quicker 
in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Yes  ?  Tell  me  about  Mr.  Darnel.  He  used 
to  be  so  ambitious,  and  I  have  never  heard  from 
him." 

"  Did  you  not  know?  Darnel  and  his  wife 
242 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


were  killed  on  their  wedding  journey,  three 
years  ago." 

"How  terrible!"  she  murmured.  "And 
how  strange,  after  all  Darnel  meant  to  do  !  " 

"There  was  nothing  so  very  strange  about 
it,"  remarked  Philander,  bitterly ;  "it  was  the 
most  commonplace  accident  in  the  world.  A 
drunken  brakeman  forgot  to  flag  a  train,  and  so 
spoiled  the  great  story." 

"  What  story?     I  don't. understand." 

"  Well,"  said  Atkinson,  "  I  didn't  altogether 
understand  myself,  but  Darnel's  idea  was  this — ' ' 
and  he  told  of  the  ecstasy  of  his  friend  concern 
ing  the  Commonest  Story.  But  he  failed  to 
mention  the  fact  that  he  too  had  known  Mrs. 
Darnel,  and  that  he  had  sailed  for  Europe  the 
day  before  the  wedding.  She  listened  gravely, 
but  with  a  light  kindling  in  her  eyes. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  cried,  as  Philander  finished,  "  if 
he  had  only  lived  !  He  was  on  the  right  track, 
wras  he  not  ?  If  anything  great  is  ever  again  to 
be  done,  it  will  be  in  that  way.  Darnel  is  on 
my  side — or  rather  on  our  side — there  are  so 
many  of  us  !  There  are  pictures,  poems,  operas 
— oh,  there  are  a  thousand  things  to  be  done, 
and  we  fin-de-siede  people,  we  science-spoiled 
people  " — there  was  a  fine  irony  in  her  tone — 
"  must  do  them.  And  we  shall  do  them  !  It 

243 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


is  grand  to  go  back  to  New  York.  Just  think 
of  the  men  and  women  there  all  trying  for  the 
same  thing,  and  all  trained  for  it,  too  !  And 
the  great  story  may  be  written  any  day,  or  the 
great  picture  painted.  Oh,  it  is  beautiful  here 
in  your  quiet  corner  of  Ueber-See-und-Thal, 
and  it  was  beautiful  in  Normandy,  but  it  always 
makes  me  restless  to  get  to  Paris  or  London  or 
New  York.  Work — work — don't  you  fairly 
thrill  with  the  sound  of  the  word  ?  'Men  my 
brothers,  men  the  workers ' —  Please,  Mr. 
Poet,  what  is  the  rest  of  it  ?  " 

Philander  shook  his  head.  He  was  watching 
her  as  a  sick  man  watches  for  the  daybreak. 
The  artist  in  her  wras  all  on  fire — but  the  wom 
an  ?  New  thoughts,  or  rather  old,  forgotten 
thoughts,  surged  up  within  him.  He  took  the 
chance. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  deliberately,  "  you  talk  ex 
actly  like  Archie  Darnel.  But  Darnel  was  in 
love — body  and  soul  in  love." 

Their  eyes  met.  Virginia  Johnson's  fell 
first,  but  in  that  single  instant  he  was  clair 
voyant  enough  to  perceive  why  she  had  illus 
trated  his  triolet,  so  long  ago,  and  why  she 
had  been  annoyed  that  he  did  not  telegraph 
when  he  lay  ill  with  the  fever.  She  had  cared 
for  him  all  the  time. 

244 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


"  Halloo,  Mr.—  •  Mr.  Atkinson  !  "  called 
Miss  Johnson's  patient  father  from  the  terrace. 
"  I  wish  you'd  give  me  the  exact  direction  of 
Strasburg.  I  can't  tell  whether  I'm  focused 
on  that  spire  or  not."  Philander  rose  without 
a  word  and  joined  him,  leaving  Miss  Virginia 
playing  with  her  suede  gloves.  The  Black 
Forest  woman,  who  had  been  standing  in  the 
shadow  of  the  refectory  for  several  minutes, 
came  forward  to  remove  the  coffee-cups.  With 
a  sudden  impulse,  the  girl  took  out  a  gold 
piece,  and  thrust  it  into  the  nun's  cool  palm. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  she.     "  I  must  not." 

"  For  the  poor,  then." 

"  If  Mademoiselle  desires.  May  you  have 
the  blessing  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Fir-tree!  " 
Then  she  glanced  toward  Atkinson  with  a  sin 
gular  expression,  and  added,  timidly:  "And 
I  wish  you  happiness,  Mademoiselle." 

"Hush!"  replied  Virginia,  severely.  But 
her  heart  was  dancing. 

"  Where  do  you  go  from  here?"  inquired 
Mr.  Johnson  of  Philander,  when  the  location 
of  the  cathedral  spire  was  definitely  deter 
mined. 

"  I  am  going  back  to  New  York,"  said  At 
kinson.  There  was  a  ring  in  his  own  voice 
that  surprised  him. 

245 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


"You  don't  say!  "  cried  the  elder  man, 
delightedly.  ' <  Passage  taken  ?  ' ' 

"Not  yet." 

"Well,  why  not  sail  with  me  Saturday? 
It's  the  French  line,  and  I'm  afraid  there  won't 
be  many  Americans  on  board.  You'd  better 
join  us. ' ' 

"There  will  be  Americans  enough,"  said 
Philander,  as  they  strolled  back  toward  the 
linden.  "But  I  don't  know  whether  I  may 
join  you.  That  depends." 

The  Alsatian  coachman  whom  Mr.  Johnson 
had  hired  was  fussing  impatiently  with  his 
horses,  for  it  was  mid-afternoon.  Philander 
stooped  for  his  knapsack. 

"You  walked  up  all  the  way?"  asked  Mr. 
Johnson.  "  Ride  down  with  us."  Philander 
glanced  involuntarily  at  Miss  Virginia. 

"You  had  better,"  said  the  girl,  quietly. 
"  He  has  been  ill,  papa,"  and  in  spite  of  her 
swiftness  in  reaching  for  the  field-glass  and 
turning  away  for  a  last  look  at  the  view,  At 
kinson  saw  the  color  mount  into  her  face. 

"  That  settles  it,"  cried  the  woollen  manu 
facturer,  cheerily. 

"Very  well,"  said  Atkinson,  with  a  look 
that  his  hospitable  fellow-countryman  could  not 
fathom.  "  We  will  let  that  settle  it.  And  I 
246 


An  Incorrigible  Poet 


think  I  shall  sail  on  La  Champagne."  His 
heart  was  like  a  boy's. 

' '  Coachman  —  put — in  —  that — knapsack. ' ' 
The  Alsatian  obeyed.  "See?"  added  Mr. 
Johnson,  triumphantly,  turning  to  Philander, 
"  these  fellows  understand  you  if  you  only  talk 
plain  United  States  to  them.  All  the  same,  it 
makes  me  lonesome  to  travel  where  there  aren't 
any  Americans.  I  tell  you,  it  doesn't  do  man 
or  woman  any  good  to  knock  around  too  much 
alone.  That's  just  what  I  say  to  my  daughter. 
Isn't  that  so,  Virginia?  " 

But  Virginia,  with  field-glass  directed  rather 
vaguely  out  upon  the  Rhine-plain,  stood  motion 
less,  as  if  she  had  not  heard  ;  whereupon  Phi 
lander  caught  her  travel-stained  Life  from  the 
table,  swiftly  folded  it  and  thrust  it  into  his  in 
side  pocket.  He  was  an  incorrigible  poet,  after 
all. 


247 


Number  Three 


NUMBER  THREE 

"It  is  very  desirable  that  a  missionary  should  be  mar 
ried.  .  .  .  Nor  is  it  well  to  defer  all  attention  to  the 
subject  till  the  eve  of  departure  from  the  country,  though 
excellent  wives  have  been  obtained  even  then." — Manual 
for  Missionary  Candidates,  Revised  Edition ,  Boston,  1891. 

THE  suppers  at  Mrs.  Jackson's  boarding- 
house  were  generally  considered  her  most 
successful  effort  of  the  day.  There  was  an  un 
deniable  sameness  about  the  breakfasts,  and  the 
theological  students  who  boarded  there  were 
inclined  to  swallow  their  coffee  morosely  and 
hurry  to  the  seminary.  The  dinners  might  well 
have  been  worse  than  they  were,  though  meat 
was  always  poor  and  high  in  Hart  well,  and  it 
was  impossible  to  keep  a  theologue  very  plump 
at  three  dollars  and  a  half  a  week.  But  by  tea- 
time  Mrs.  Jackson  was  wont  to  repent  of  her 
small  economies,  and  being  a  master-hand  at 
hashes  and  croquettes  and  hot  pastry,  she  gained 
for  her  suppers  a  reputation  that  spread  through 
the  seminary.  Then,  too,  her  theologues,  at 
the  close  of  the  day,  were  usually  in  a  cheerful 
251 


Number  Three 


mood,  and  ready  to  be  pleased  with  trifles,  cul 
inary  and  otherwise.  They  saved  their  best 
jokes,  culled  from  the  funny  corner  of  the  relig 
ious  papers,  for  this  evening  meal.  Here  they 
mimicked  the  professors,  and  delivered  them 
selves  oracularly  concerning  politics  and  sci 
ence.  Most  of  them  were  second-  and  third - 
year  men,  and  could  chaff  one  another  upon 
preaching  experiences,  the  size  of  congregations, 
and  the  probability  of  calls.  When  all  other 
topics  failed,  there  was  one  which  had  for  them 
a  perennial  fascination.  Whether  they  ap 
proached  it  coyly,  or  with  practised  noncha 
lance,  there  was  not  a  man  out  of  the  dozen 
who  did  not  feel  that  his  future  profession  and 
his  past  experience  warranted  him  in  mention 
ing  woman  with  the  assurance  of  one  who  knew 
whereof  he  spoke.  Matrimony  was  for  them 
no  speculative  and  problematical  affair,  to  be 
meditated  upon  at  idle  moments  as  one  of  the 
possibilities  of  a  distant  future  ;  very  far  from 
it.  Within  two  or  three  years  at  most,  they 
all  expected  to  be  married,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Their  widest  usefulness  in  their  chosen 
calling — for  instance — depended  largely  upon 
the  abnegation  of  the  single  state.  Some  of 
them  had  been  engaged  to  be  married  for  years 
and  years  ;  there  were  faithful  school-teachers 
252 


Number  Three 


and  farmers'  daughters  patiently  waiting  until 
their  lovers  should  finish  the  college  and  semi 
nary  course.  It  happened,  however,  that  most 
of  Mrs.  Jackson's  boarders,  though  cherishing 
a  blessed  certainty  as  to  their  ultimate  condi 
tion,  were  still  open  to  conviction  as  to  the  ex 
act  person  whom  Providence  might  indicate  as 
their  life-companion ;  and  this  slight  air  of  un 
certainty  as  to  particulars  mingled  curiously 
with  their  innocent  cock-sureness  about  woman 
in  general. 

An  outsider  would  have  been  more  amused 
than  irritated  by  it  all,  but  there  was  only  one 
non-theological  boarder  at  the  table,  a  nephew 
of  Mrs.  Jackson,  who  did  chores  for  his  board 
and  attended  the  academy,  and  who  was  not 
old  enough  to  sink  his  irritation  in  his  amuse 
ment.  Dan  Jackson  was  wont  to  declare  to  his 
school-boy  friends,  that  the  nudges  and  winks 
and  sly  allusions  to  the  ladies  on  the  part  of  his 
aunt's  boarders  made  him  tired.  Toward  the 
spring  of  the  year,  when  the  mud  began  to  dry 
up  in  the  long  street  of  Hartwell,  and  the  elm- 
tree  buds  to  redden,  and  the  theologues  to  pre 
pare  for  their  final  examinations,  Dan  Jackson's 
weariness  perceptibly  increased.  Three  of  the 
graduates  were  to  be  married  in  a  month,  and 
each  day  they  had  to  face  a  concealed  battery 

253 


Number  Three 


of  comment  and  interrogation  and  conjecture 
from  their  fellow -boarders.  Then,  too,  there 
was  Leffingwell's  case.  Leffingwell  was  con 
sidered  the  best  all-round  man  in  the  Senior 
Class :  a  stubby,  old-faced  fellow  from  the  Far 
West,  with  a  preternaturally  wide  skull — flat  on 
top — and  with  high  cheek  bones.  His  hair 
was  thin,  and  his  big  ears  moved  slightly  as  he 
ate.  Whenever  he  stated  a  proposition  or  in 
dulged  in  repartee,  he  closed  his  eyes,  in  order 
to  concentrate  his  faculties  upon  the  question  in 
hand.  He  was  entitled  by  rights  to  the  Berlin 
fellowship  for  the  next  two  years,  but  in  pur 
suance  of  a  long-cherished  wish,  was  about  to 
sail  as  a  missionary  to  Senegambia.  He  had 
refused  two  chairs  of  philosophy  in  Western 
institutions,  and  was  popularly  reputed  at  the 
seminary  to  have  devised  a  philosophical  system 
of  his  own,  completely  reconciling  the  claims 
of  religion  and  of  science.  It  was  currently  be 
lieved  that  as  soon  as  he  had  mastered  the  Sene- 
gambian  tongue,  he  would  publish  his  system 
in  that  language  in  an  abridged  form,  thereby 
at  once  allaying  the  native  philosophic  doubt  of 
the  Senegambians  and  putting  them  in  touch 
with  the  most  recent  Occidental  thought.  The 
Board  had  already  accepted  him,  provisionally. 
His  statement  of  faith  was  considered  the  most 

254 


Number  Three 


masterly  document  composed  by  a  Hartwell 
man  for  ten  years;  transparently  simple  in 
outline,  and  Scriptural  in  terminology,  but  in 
wardly  packed  so  full  of  Leffingwell's  irrefrag 
able  system  that  any  attempt  to  pick  flaws  in  it 
was  logically  as  dangerous  as  to  meddle  with 
dynamite.  No  serious  criticism  had  even  been 
offered  upon  it,  and  there  was  but  one  obstacle 
to  Leffingwell's  immediate  embarkment  for  his 
field.  He  was  a  bachelor,  and  the  Board  pre 
ferred  that  its  representative  in  Senegambia 
should  be  a  married  man. 

Leffingwell's  plight  was  thoroughly  appre 
ciated  by  his  fellow-students,  and  three  times  a 
day  he  was  obliged  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  their 
suggestions  and  admonitions.  Open  raillery 
was  ventured  upon  but  seldom,  for  Leffingwell's 
deliberate  way  of  closing  his  eyes  and  selecting 
the  adequate  epithet  for  retort  was  disconcert 
ing  to  his  adversaries.  Some  of  their  choicest 
witticisms,  therefore,  were  reserved  until  after 
Leffingwell's  departure  from  the  table.  One 
evening  late  in  April  he  was  so  manifestly 
absorbed  and  ill  -  tempered,  that  two  of  the 
theologues  winked  at  each  other  as  he  left  the 
room. 

"  Leffingwell's  rather  down  on  his  luck,  isn't 
he  ?  "  remarked  one. 

255 


Number  Three 


"  Looks  like  it.  Can't  say  that  I  blame 
him,  though  :  two  refusals  in  three  weeks  must 
ruffle  even  a  philosopher,  eh  ?  How  is  that, 
Tommy  ?  ' ' 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  man.  I  don't  know  the 
sensation."  And  the  youth  glanced  blandly  at 
an  engagement  ring  that  he  had  worn  for  six 
years. 

' '  How  do  you  know  he  has  had  the  mitten 
twice  ?  "  put  in  another. 

"  Never  mind  that :  it's  straight.  I've  seen 
both  their  photographs.  One  of  them  preferred 
Japan,  and  the  other  didn't  fancy  him  because 
he  proposed  by  letter. ' ' 

"Good  for  her,"  said  the  man  with  the  ring. 
"  He  deserves  to  be  blue." 

"  But  that  isn't  the  reason  why  he's  blue 
now,  Tommy,"  cried  the  other,  delightedly. 
"  Look  here,  you  fellows  won't  say  anything  ?  " 
There  were  but  four  or  five  boarders  remaining 
at  the  table,  and  they  all  glanced  up,  except 
Dan  Jackson,  who  was  devouring  one  of  his 
aunt's  best  hashes,  with  his  eyes  fixed,  as  al 
ways,  upon  his  plate. 

"  Don't  let  it  out,"  continued  the  well-in 
formed  young  man,  "  but  there's  a  No.  3  !  " 

"  No  !  "  "  You  don't  say  !  "  "  Come  !  " 
were  the  incredulous  ejaculations  of  Leffing- 
256 


Number  Three 


well's  associates.     They  had  not  believed  him 
capable  of  such  rapid  manoeuvring. 

"  Fact,  though.  That  fellow  has  an  address- 
book  compiled  by  his  aunt,  and  this  girl  was 
third  in  the  list.  She  isn't  as  strong  as  No.  i, 
nor  as  well  educated  as  No.  2,  but  she  is  pretty, 
and  she  has  seven  or  eight  thousand  dollars  in 
her  own  right." 

This  array  of  facts  was  respectfully  listened  to 
by  all  except  Dan  Jackson,  who  reached  scorn 
fully  across  the  table  for  some  sweet  pickles. 
Dan  was  fifteen,  and  had  a  due  contempt  for 
matrimonial  gossip. 

The  speaker  looked  around  the  circle  tri 
umphantly  before  adding  his  remaining  bit  of 
information.  "  He's  waiting  her  answer  now 
— and  she's  a  Hartwell  young  lady." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  quick  guesses  and  offers 
to  bet — no  stakes — on  naming  her  in  three 
chances  ;  but  the  well-informed  youth  rose,  and 
shoved  his  chair  under  the  table. 

"  No,"  he  said,  uprightly.  "  I've  gone  too 
far  now.  You  don't  get  her  name  out  of  me." 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  though  all  he  had  said  was 
true  enough,  he  did  not  know  her  name  him 
self.  The  others  crowded  after  him  out  of  the 
room,  with  even  more  than  the  usual  hilarity, 
leaving  young  Jackson  alone  at  the  table. 
257 


Number  Three 


Dan  poured  himself  a  final  glass  of  milk, 
awaiting  his  aunt's  entrance.  He  raised  the 
milk  to  his  lips,  and  then  set  it  down  again, 
with  a  troubled  expression  upon  his  freckled, 
homely  face.  He  was  trying  to  put  two  things 
together. 

It  had  been  his  turn,  on  the  previous  Sunday 
evening,  to  take  tea  with  his  Sunday-school 
teacher,  Miss  Achsah  Millicent.  She  had  given 
him  good  things  to  eat,  and  had  been  very  en 
tertaining — she  was  the  only  nice  Sunday-school 
teacher  in  Hartwell,  as  all  the  boys  admitted — 
but  when  he  had  proposed  going  home,  soon 
after  tea,  under  the  supposition  that  it  was 
proper  to  mention  going  and  then  yield  to  per 
suasions  to  remain,  she  had  not  urged  him  to 
stay ;  and  he  had  been  forced  to  come  away,  in 
some  chagrin.  At  the  gate  he  had  met  this 
Leffingwell  going  in  !  He  thought  nothing  of 
it  at  the  time  :  theologues  were  always  calling 
at  Deacon  Millicent's.  But  what  he  had  just 
heard  startled  him.  Suppose  Leffingwell  were 
really  going  to  marry  Miss  Achsah  ? 

By  George,  he,  Dan  Jackson,  wouldn't  al 
low  it !  She  was  too  good  for  him  ;  a  million 
times  too  good.  She  was  the  prettiest  girl  in 
Hartwell,  if  she  was  getting  a  little  old,  and 
the  nicest  girl  anywhere.  She  ought  to  marry 


Number  Three 


a  big  lawyer,  or  a  hotel-keeper,  or  the  president 
of  a  railroad.  To  think  of  her  marrying  a 
missionary,  who  had  to  get  a  wife  or  lose  his 
job! 

And  she  might  be  giving  Leffingwell  her  an 
swer  that  very  minute.  Dan  gulped  off  his  milk 
fiercely  ;  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  Some 
thing  had  to  be  done  about  it,  and  there  was 
apparently  no  one  but  himself  who  would  or 
could  do  anything.  For  a  minute  he  gazed 
despairingly  about  the  room  ;  then  he  looked 
suddenly  at  his  cuffs  and  felt  of  his  necktie. 
Mrs.  Jackson  came  in. 

"Dan'l,"  said  she,  "  don't  you  think  you 
better  be  a  clearing  off  those  dishes  ?  ' ' 

Dan  rose  with  dignity.  "  I  suppose  you'll 
have  to  excuse  me  to-night,  Auntie.  I've  got  to 
make  a  call,  right  away.'? 

"  Why,  Dan'l,  where  on  earth  are  you  going 
to  make  a  call  ?  ' ' 

"  On  my  Sunday-school  teacher,"  said  Dan, 
virtuously,  and  Mrs.  Jackson  mentally  decided, 
for  the  second  time  that  day,  that  after  all  was 
said  about  his  breaking  dishes,  Dan'l's  heart  was 
in  the  right  place,  anyhow. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  boy  had  arrayed 
himself  in  his  Sunday  suit,  donned  a  red  necktie 
and  high  collar,  and  had  painfully  written  "  D. 
259 


Number  Three 


Webster  Jackson"  in  violet  ink  upon  a  bevel- 
edged  card.  Then  he  started  stiffly  down  the 
long  street  toward  Deacon  Millicent's,  his  boyish 
heart  still  full  of  stern  suspicion  and  righteous 
wrath. 

Miss  Achsah  Millicent  sat  under  the  hanging- 
lamp  in  the  sitting-room,  gazing  abstractedly  at 
a  map  of  Senegambia.  She  had  on  her  best 
cashmere ;  it  was  two  years  old,  to  be  sure,  but 
she  had  put  in  full  sleeves  that  spring,  and  had 
added  velvet  cuffs.  Perhaps  it  would  last 
until — well,  until  she  had  several  new  gowns  at 
once ;  then  she  wondered  if  they  wore  leg-of- 
mutton  sleeves  in  Senegambia;  and  then  she 
knew  she  was  blushing,  and  she  glanced  timidly 
around  the  immaculate  room.  She  was  all  alone 
in  the  house.  The  Deacon  was  attending  a 
conference  meeting  in  an  adjoining  town.  Her 
mother  had  been  dead  for  many  years.  Both 
mother  and  father  had  early  consecrated  their 
daughter  to  the  service  of  the  Lord  in  the  foreign 
field,  if  the  way  should  be  providentially  opened. 
The  Deacon  had  told  about  it  in  prayer-meeting 
so  often  that  it  was  a  standing  joke  in  Hartwell 
society ;  and  the  girl  felt  her  heart  beat  faster 
whenever  her  father  rose  to  speak,  through  fear 
that  he  might  forget  his  promise  and  tell  the 
church  again  about  that  early  vow.  For  thus 
260 


Number  Three 


far  there  had  never  been  providentially  opened 
a  way  to  its  fulfilment. 

Achsah  Millicent  had  known  many  theologi 
cal  students  who  expected  to  be  missionaries, 
and  some  of  them  had  been  very  good  friends 
of  hers,  but  none  of  them  had  ever  asked  her  to 
marry  him.  Nor  had  anyone  else.  For  ten 
years  she  had  been  considered  the  ' '  nicest  girl ' ' 
in  Hart  well,  and  numberless  young  men  had  ad 
mired  her  both  afar  and  in  tolerable  proximity, 
but  no  man  had  ever  told  her  that  he  loved  her. 
No  man,  that  is,  except  Mortimer  G.  Leffing- 
well,  who  had  used  that  expression  on  the  pre 
vious  Sunday  evening,  and  had  asked  her  to 
accompany  him  to  Senegambia. 

She  had  requested  two  days  for  consideration, 
and  this  was  the  second  day.  It  had  been  a 
strange  experience ;  not  at  all  like  what  she  had 
at  times  imagined  it  would  be,  if  it  ever  came 
to  her.  He  had  not  gone  down  on  one  knee, 
nor  was  there  any  lovelight  in  his  eyes ;  he  had 
sat  quite  tranquilly  with  his  knees  crossed,  and 
one  of  his  feet  dangling  deliberately ;  his  eyes 
were  closed,  as  he  formulated  his  proposition. 
Miss  Millicent  was  conscious  of  a  vague  disap 
pointment  here,  and  yet  she  was  not  sure  but 
Mr.  Leffingwell  would  have  looked  ridiculous  if 
he  had  chosen  any  other  way.  As  it  was,  he 
261 


Number  Three 


had  not  been  ridiculous  at  all,  though  perhaps 
a  little  prosaic.  She  suspected,  however,  that 
he  was  rather  a  matter-of-fact  person,  though 
she  knew  he  was  very  bright,  and  that  the  pro 
fessors  considered  him  an  ornament  to  the 
seminary.  He  would  undoubtedly  make  a  good 
husband — for  someone — and  she  herself — well, 
she  was  no  longer  a  school-girl,  and  ought  not 
to  expect  a  proposal  in  the  terms  of  a  school 
girl's  fancy.  It  was  enough  that  he  had  pro 
posed  at  all,  was  it  not  ?  All  these  years  she 
had  been  waiting  for  just  that,  had  she  not? 
Really,  that  is ;  of  course  not  so  to  be  acknowl 
edged,  even  to  herself,  up  till  now.  But  at  last 
the  door  had  been  opened,  and  why  should  she 
stand  hesitant  before  it?  Her  father  would 
praise  the  Lord  for  his  mercy,  she  was  sure  ;  her 
mother — in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Millicent 
had  always  insisted  that  her  chief  trial  in  this 
life  was  to  have  a  man  around — would  have  re 
joiced  with  the  Deacon,  had  she  been  alive. 
Perhaps  she  knew  all  about  it,  as  it  was.  Achsah 
Millicent  had  never  felt  so  near  her  mother  as 
she  did  in  those  two  days  ;  full  of  soft  affection 
for  her,  and  an  intense  longing  to  have  her  back 
again.  Yet,  after  all,  she  reflected,  the  main 
question  was  not  concerning  parental  approval, 
but  whether  she  loved  Mr.  Leffingwell.  Did  she 
262 


Number  Three 


love  him  ?  She  was  not  at  all  sure  that  she  did, 
and  yet —  When  she  reached  this  point  in  the 
circle  of  inner  argumentation,  during  the  course 
of  those  two  days,  she  invariably  wanted  to  cry. 
For  she  had  never  loved  anybody — that  is,  any 
man — that  is,  not  since  she  was  the  merest  girl — 
and  perhaps  she  was  now  incapable  of  the  emotion 
that  other  people  seemed  to  feel.  The  happiness 
of  it  might  be  meant  for  other  people  ;  she  had 
always  had  a  quiet,  virginal  happiness  of  her 
own.  And  still,  she  was  not  sure.  Perhaps 
love  had  to  grow,  like  other  beautiful  things, 
and  very  likely  respect  was  the  proper  soil  for  it. 
She  certainly  respected  Mortimer  G.  Leffingwell 
very  much  indeed.  Like  herself,  he  had  been 
early  consecrated  to  the  foreign  field,  and  he  was 
now  expecting  to  give  up  a  great  deal  that  was 
tempting  to  him  in  order  to  go  to  Senegambia. 
Those  dark  faces  called  to  him  day  and  night, 
he  had  said  ;  and  he  had  added,  with  closed 
eyes,  that  he  was  sure  she,  too,  would  obey  the 
call.  And  there  were  but  two  days  for  her 
answer.  Oh,  the  time  was  so  short  !  And  it 
had  already  expired  ! 

There  was  a  sharp,  uncompromising  ring  at 

Deacon  Millicent's   front  door.      Miss  Achsah 

rose  unsteadily ;  one  hand  was  pressed  to  her 

side,  the  other  fell  to  the  table  and  rested  on  the 

263 


Number  Three 


map  of  Senegambia.  She  glanced  downward  at 
it  involuntarily,  and  a  sense  of  her  duty  flashed 
upon  her.  The  providential  way  was  made 
straight ;  she  would  accept  Mr.  Leffingwell's 
offer.  Slowly  she  moved  into  the  front  hall ; 
she  did  not  wish  to  open  the  door  too  soon  ;  it 
seemed  scarcely  modest.  Modest  ?  She  caught 
ber  breath  again.  It  was  immodest  to  admit  a 
man  to  the  gentle,  prim  seclusion  of  her  heart, 
when  she  more  than  half-suspected  that  she  did 
not  love  him.  Her  answer  should  be  ' '  No  !  ' ' 
And  yet  she  hesitated.  The  bell  rang  again, 
almost  angrily.  "Yes"  or  "  No  ?  "  In  an 
agony  of  uncertainty,  the  girl  took  the  gambler's 
choice  :  she  would  let  Leffingwell's  face  settle  the 
question,  when  she  opened  the  door.  If  there 
was  a  certain  something  in  it,  she  would  marry 
him  ;  she  did  not  know  what  it  would  be,  but 
she  felt  that  she  could  tell  if  it  was  there. 
She  closed  her  eyes,  an  instant,  then  she  threw 
the  door  wide  open  and  stepped  back. 

Dan  Jackson  stood  there  with  his  red  necktie 
and  his  laboriously  written  card.  There  was  a 
determined  scowl  above  his  honest  eyes ;  his 
hair,  still  wet  from  the  brush,  was  rigorously 
parted  ;  a  flush  of  embarrassment  was  upon  his 
freckled  face.  The  nicest  girl  in  Hartwell  gave 
a  little  gasp;  then,  with  a  smile  that  would 

264 


Number  Three 


have  quite  turned  the  head  of  a  less  inflexible 
visitor,  she  put  out  both  hands  to  him. 

"  Why,  Dan  !  "  she  cried.  "  I'm  so  glad  to 
see  you.  I — I  didn't  expect  you.  Come  in  !  " 

She  relieved  him  of  his  hat  and  the  bevel- 
edged  card,  and  offered  him  the  best  chair  in 
the  sitting-room.  He  sat  up  very  straight, 
looking  at  her  with  admiring  scrutiny.  His 
gaze  made  her  a  trifle  uncomfortable,  though  it 
pleased  her,  too. 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  to  see  me, 
Dan, ' '  she  said.  l '  I  am  all  alone  this  evening. ' ' 

"  Well,"  he  remarked,  with  a  covert  mean 
ing  which  she  did  not  grasp,  "  I  am  glad  of 
that.  I  didn't  know  that  you  would  be."  He 
pulled  out  his  clean  handkerchief,  and  without 
unfolding  it,  passed  it  over  his  forehead.  The 
Millicent  sitting-room  seemed  warm,  and  he  had 
a  great  task  imposed  upon  him. 

Miss  Achsah  opened  a  window  and  let  the 
cool,  April  night-breeze  into  the  room.  A  fine 
rain  was  falling. 

"  Why,  you  came  down  in  the  rain,  Dan  !  " 
she  exclaimed.  "  I  did  not  notice  it." 

"I  don't  mind  the  rain,"  he  said.  "I 
haven't  carried  an  umbrella  all  winter." 

"  Indeed  ?     Isn't  that  rather  imprudent  ?  ' ' 

"  Oh,  I  hate  to  bother  with  one.     I  had  a 
265 


'Number  Three 


good  umbrella,  though,  last  fall ;  a  dollar-and- 
a-half  umbrella,  and  one  of  those  theologues 
stole  it  from  me." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so?  "  she  said,  laugh 
ingly.  "  That's  a  serious  charge,  Dan." 

"  Well,  it's  true,"  he  went  on,  vindictively. 
"  Those  fellows  will  do  anything  ;  you  have  to 
watch  'em  all  the  time.  I  leave  it  to  any  acad 
emy  boy." 

"  I'm  afraid  that  wouldn't  be  quite  fair. 
Aren't  the  boys  just  a  little  prejudiced  ?  " 

"  I  dunno — maybe,"  he  admitted,  magnani 
mously.  "  But  I  ain't.  I  live  right  there  with 
'em,  at  my  aunt's.  I  eat  with  'em  three  times 
a  day.  I  know  all  about  'em.  I  tell  you,  you 
want  to  look  out  for  'em. ' '  She  was  amused  by 
his  growing  heat,  without  in  the  least  under 
standing  the  reason  of  it,  and  she  led  him  on  a 
little  recklessly.  Any  moment  Mr.  Leffingwell 
might  appear  at  the  front  door. 

"Why,  Dan,  anyone  would  think,  to  listen 
to  you,  that  the  theological  students  were  crimi 
nals.  Now  you  know  better  than  that.  You 
really  respect  them  very  much  ;  come,  be 
honest  !  " 

"Respect  'em!"  he  cried,  incredulously. 
But  she  was  looking  him  in  the  eyes  and  he 
was  forced  to  modify  his  statement.  "  Respect 
266 


Number  Three 


'em?  Why,  of  course,  I  respect  some  of  'em. 
There's  one  at  the  Obed  house,  who  was  sub 
stitute  half-back  on  the  Yale  team.  He's  all 
right.  And  one  or  two  at  our  house  may  be  all 
right.  But  take  'em  together,  they  make  me 
tired.  And  if  a  man  makes  you  tired,  Miss 
Achsah,  I  don't  see  that  it  makes  any  difference 
whether  you  respect  him  or  not." 

She  dropped  her  eyes  a  little;  her  fingers 
were  drumming  on  the  open  map,  as  if  she  were 
turning  over  the  boy's  aphorism  in  her  mind. 
Dan  Jackson  saw  that  she  hesitated,  and  he 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  took  the  plunge. 

"  Now,  for  instance,"  he  continued,  dispas 
sionately,  "there's  a  theologue  who  sits  oppo 
site  me  at  the  table.  He's  got  a  head  that's  flat 
on  top,  just  as  flat  as  a  dirt-court.  You  could 
play  tennis  on  it,  honestly,  if  it  was  a  little  big 
ger.  And  when  he's  got  anything  to  say  of 
any  importance,  he  kind  of  shuts  his  eyes  and 
opens  his  mouth  and  fires  at  you.  His  name  is 
Leffingwell.  Mortimer  G.  Lefnngwell.  He's 
going  to  be  a  missionary  somewhere.  And  he 
makes  me  tired.  Now  I  want  to  know  whether 
it  makes  any  difference  whether  I  respect  him 
or  not  ?  ' ' 

She  was  silent  an  instant,  and  the  boy,  car 
ried  away  by  the  triumphant  force  of  his  own 

267 


Number  Three 


argument,  made  an  incautious  move.  "  He 
isn't  a  friend  of  yours,  is  he  ?  I  don't  suppose 
I  ought  to  say  anything  against  him,  if  he  is. ' ' 

Miss  Achsah  detected  the  transparent  hypoc 
risy.  "  Mr.  Leffingwell  is  a  friend  of  mine," 
she  said,  quietly.  "  I  am  sorry  you  do  not 
like  him,  Dan.  He  is  a  very  noble  man." 

Dan's  heart  came  up  in  his  throat.  His 
worst  fears  were  true,  then.  "  Oh,  that's  all 
right,"  he  said,  weakly;  "  it's  all  right  if  you 
like  him."  Then,  in  a  passion  of  revolt,  he 
added  :  "  Did  you  ever  watch  his  ears  wag 
when  he  eats  ?  ' ' 

The  girl  laughed  in  spite  of  herself.  There 
was  no  denying  it ;  Mr.  Leffingwell  was  occa 
sionally  ridiculous ;  and  all  the  gentle  proprieties 
of  Miss  Achsah's  nature  recognized  and  resent 
ed  the  fact,  for  the  first  time.  But  the  boy 
thought  she  was  laughing  at  him,  and  tears  of 
helpless  anger  started  to  his  eyes.  He  did  not 
know  what  more  he  could  say  against  Leffing 
well  ;  he  groped  among  the  chaos  of  sensations 
in  his  mind,  as  a  diver  spreads  his  arms  uncer 
tainly  in  the  dim  under-world.  Then  his  fingers 
closed  upon  something. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  desperately,  "  I  don't  sup 
pose  it  makes  any  difference  whether  I  like  him 
or  not.  He  can  get  some  girl  to  like  him,  and 
268 


Number  Three 


they'll  go  off  and  be  missionaries.  He's  got  a 
regular  list  of  girls,  and  as  fast  as  one  of  'em 
won't  have  him,  he  just  tries  the  next.  He's 
tried  two  in  the  last  three  weeks." 

The  boy's  vision  was  so  blurred  that  he  could 
not  see  Miss  Achsah's  face.  He  got  up  awk 
wardly,  too  proud  to  let  her  suspect  his  misery. 
"  I  suppose  I  must  go  now,  Miss  Millicent,"  he 
remarked,  formally.  "  I've  had  a  very  pleasant 
time." 

"  Dan,"  she  said,  rising  swiftly  and  laying 
her  right  hand  on  his  shoulder,  with  a  voice  that 
scared  him  by  its  intensity,  "  are  you  making 
that  up  about  the  list  ?  ' ' 

"Honest  Injun  —  hope  to  die" — affirmed 
Dan,  gloomily.  "  The  theologues  were  laughin' 
about  it  at  supper  to-night. ' ' 

Miss  Achsah  did  not  lift  her  right  hand  from 
the  boy's  shoulder,  but  with  the  left  she  reached 
around  to  the  table  behind  her  and  noiselessly 
closed  the  map  of  Senegambia. 

"  Dan,"  she  remarked,  with  a  tone  of  matter- 
of-fact  hospitality  that  greatly  relieved  him,  "  I 
don't  believe  you  have  to  go  just  yet.  Let's  go 
out  in  the  kitchen  and  make  some  molasses 
candy ;  and  if  anyone  calls,  you  can  come  in 
and  say  that  I  am  engaged." 

They  made  candy  with  great  glee,  and  in  un- 


Number  Three 


disturbed  seclusion,  until  the  academy  regula 
tions  forced  Dan  to  take  his  departure,  at  five 
minutes  before  ten.  It  was  quite  too  late  for  her 
to  expect  any  other  caller.  Just  as  he  was  go 
ing  out  of  the  door,  Miss  Achsah,  to  his  utter 
amazement,  bent  impulsively  and  kissed  the 
boy's  forehead. 

Mr.  Mortimer  G.  Leffingwell  awoke  the  next 
morning  with  a  sort  of  half-regret.  He  had  in 
tended  to  call  upon  Miss  Millicent  the  previous 
evening,  indeed  very  soon  after  supper — but 
happening  to  pick  up  a  Review,  he  found  an 
epoch-making  article  that  bore — not  directly 
perhaps,  but  none  the  less  significantly — upon 
the  second  point  in  his  statement  of  faith.  It 
had  interested  him  exceedingly,  but  he  was  able 
to  say,  when  he  laid  it  down,  that  it  had  not 
shaken  a  single  clause  of  his  own  system  of 
thought.  The  evening  had  been  therefore  well 
spent,  though  in  his  concentration  upon  the 
article,  he  had  forgotten  Miss  Millicent  until  it 
was  too  late  to  think  of  calling  upon  her.  He 
would  go  after  dinner  to-day,  instead.  But  be 
fore  dinner,  as  he  sat  by  his  study  table,  the 
student  whose  turn  it  was  to  bring  the  mail  flung 
a  note  into  his  lap.  Miss  Millicent,  while  rec 
ognizing  the  privilege  and  honor  extended  to 
270 


Number  Three 


her,  wrote  that  she  felt  compelled  to  decline  his 
offer,  and  begged  most  earnestly  that  the  subject 
might  not  be  alluded  to  again. 

Leffingwell  ejaculated  a  line  of  Hebrew,  and 
tipped  back  mournfully  in  his  chair.  It  was  a 
great  disappointment  to  him.  He  had  made  up 
his  mind  that  she  was  just  the  wife  he  needed. 
The  fact  that  the  two  previous  ones  had  rejected 
his  proposals,  thereby  clearing  the  way  for  Miss 
Millicent,  had  looked  like  such  an  unmistakable 
indication  of  Providence  !  And  yet  after  all, 
he  reflected,  perhaps  his  confidence  in  the  ac 
curacy  of  the  providential  indicator  had  been 
well-placed,  and  he  had  simply  misread  the  num 
ber — the  minute  mark,  as  it  were,  upon  the 
matrimonial  dial — at  which  the  indicator  had 
seemed  to  be  temporarily  arrested.  He  there 
fore  took  his  address-book  out  of  the  drawer, 
but  before  turning  to  the  next  name  on  the  list, 
he  spent  a  moment  in  drawing  a  pencil  mark, 
regretfully  and  elaborately,  through  the  name  of 
Number  Three. 


271 


At  Sesenheim 


AT   SESENHEIM 

WE  never  should  have  gone  to  Sesenheim 
at  all,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Rhodora. 
It  was  a  Saturday  afternoon  in  June,  and  we — 
that  is,  Rhodora  and  her  husband  and  the 
Scribe,  who  was  an  old  friend  of  them  both — 
were  standing  on  the  north  side  of  the  minster 
square  at  Strasburg,  in  front  of  an  old  bric-a- 
brac  shop.  There  was  a  blaze  of  sunlight  on 
the  square,  and  it  seemed  as  if  waves  of  heat, 
reflected  from  the  huge  red  sandstone  minster, 
were  fairly  beating  in  our  faces.  The  shop 
looked  dark  and  cool.  Its  windows  were  hung 
with  rare  old  weapons,  curious  drinking-cups  in 
pewter  and  clay,  odd  bits  of  eighteenth-century 
china,  and  carved  wooden  crucifixes,  together 
with  peasants'  rings  and  charms  and  many  a 
queer  ornament  in  ivory  or  silver.  It  was  not 
a  shop  that  a  woman  like  Rhodora  could  easily 
pass  by,  and  that  which  drew  her  fancy  specially 
was  a  pair  of  silver  candelabra,  tiny  graceful 
things,  a  trifle  battered. 

275 


At  Sesenbeim 


"  How  much  do  you  think  they  would  want 
for  them  ?  ' '  she  asked. 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  John  answered, 
without  enthusiasm. 

"  They  are  so  lovely,"  she  said,  reflectively. 
' '  And  I  can  just  see  them  over  our  fireplace, 
John.  Wait  a  minute. ' '  Then  she  disappeared 
within  the  shop,  leaving  John  and  the  Scribe 
upon  the  scorching  pavement.  There  was  the 
sound  of  an  eager  dialogue,  but  the  questions 
soon  grew  slower  and  more  subdued,  and  pres 
ently  Rhodora  reappeared,  empty-handed  save 
for  the  Baedeker  which  now  emerged  from  its 
temporary  hiding-place  underneath  her  travel 
ling-wrap. 

"Three  hundred  francs!  "  she  exclaimed, 
with  an  impressive  whisper.  "Did  you  ever 
hear  of  anything  equal  to  that?  "  The  gentle 
men  were  silent.  "  Now  do  you  think  that  he 
could  have  suspected  I  was  an  American  ?  ' '  she 
demanded.  "  I'm  sure  I  didn't  make  any  mis 
take  in  the  German." 

Her  companions  laughed.  "It  is  queer  that 
so  many  shopkeepers  do  take  you  for  an  Ameri 
can,"  remarked  John,  ironically. 

' '  Do  you  honestly  think  your  bonnet  looks 
like  a  German  bonnet  ?  ' '  the  Scribe  ventured 
to  ask. 

276 


At  Sesenheim 


Rhodora  was  mollified.  "  I  hope  not,"  she 
sighed,  as  if  the  idea  brought  some  comfort  with 
it.  She  stepped  off  from  the  narrow  pavement, 
apparently  to  go  toward  the  minster,  and  then 
stopped,  as  if  surveying  the  city  for  final  judg 
ment. 

"  I  believe  I'm  a  little  disappointed  with 
Strasburg,"  she  declared;  "except,  of  course, 
for  the  cathedral.  Three  hundred  francs  for 
those  candelabra  !  ' '  She  turned  regretfully 
toward  the  shop  windows  again,  and  her  eye  fell 
upon  the  name  of  the  owner,  in  faded  gilt  letters, 
above  them.  "  Brion, ' '  she  repeated.  ' '  Brion  ? 
It  must  be  a  French  name.  Why,  Brion  — 
who  was  Brion  ?  Tell  me,  one  of  you  two 
gentlemen."  But  John  and  the  Scribe  looked 
at  each  other  helplessly.  "  Brion — why,  of 
course  !  ' '  exclaimed  Rhodora.  ' '  Friederike 
Brion,  Goethe's  Friederike  !  John,  Sesenheim 
must  be  near  by,  and  I've  always  wanted  to  go 
there.  It's  so  hot  and  dirty  here  ;  let's  go  to 
spend  the  Sunday  at  Sesenheim  !  ' ' 

That  is  how  we  three  happened  to  make  our 
pilgrimage  to  the  quiet  Alsatian  village,  whose 
sole  claim  to  notice  is  that  it  was  once  the  scene 
of  a  love  episode  more  idyllic  and  more  tenderly 
told  than  perhaps  any  other  that  ever  won  its 
gentle  way  into  the  world's  literature. 

277 


At  Sesenbeim 


It  was  all  Rhodora's  enthusiasm.  We  got 
but  slight  encouragement  from  Jean,  our  skeptic 
al  head-waiter  at  the  Maison  Rouge,  to  whom 
we  applied  for  information.  "  Sesenheim  ?  "  he 
repeated,  with  a  head-waiter's  shrug.  "  II  y  a 
de  bon  vin  rouge  la  bas,  mais  " —  Clearly  he 
knew  nothing  about  Friederike  Brion.  There 
were  no  more  trains  that  day.  But  Rhodora 
was  not  thus  to  be  put  down,  after  all  her  desires 
to  visit  Sesenheim,  which  dated  back,  she  gravely 
informed  us,  to  her  school-girl  days,  when  she 
had  first  read  Goethe's  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit, 
and  had  promptly  fallen  in  love  with  Friederike. 
She  dispatched  the  Scribe  in  search  of  a  cheap 
edition  of  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit;  she  explained 
to  her  husband  that  for  this  once  she  would  not 
object  to  a  Sunday  train  ;  and  she  had  her  own 
way  in  everything.  To  tell  the  truth,  John, 
who  during  his  summer  vacation  was  inspecting 
the  chemical  laboratories  of  German  universities, 
and  the  Scribe,  who  was  keeping  him  lazy  com 
pany,  were  both  of  them  tempted  by  the  idea 
of  escaping  for  a  day  from  the  round  of  travel, 
and  of  going  to  seek  an  Arcadia. 

We  were  lucky  enough  to  find  a  guide  to  our 

Arcadia  in  the  shape  of  a  tiny  book  on  Friederike 

Brion,  written  by  Pastor  Lucius  of  Sesenheim  ; 

and  as  the  early  morning  train  carried  us  out  of 

278 


At  Sesenbeim 


Strasburg  into  the  fresh  greenness  of  the  level 
Alsatian  country,  the  Scribe  was  deputed  to  read 
the  important  passages  from  the  Pastor's  loving 
little  chronicle.  So  with  Friederike  Brion  in  one 
hand  and  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit  in  the  other, 
he  read  aloud,  and  gradually  the  story  took 
shape  :  how  the  Strasburg  student,  twenty-one, 
brilliant,  lovable,  rode  to  Sesenheim  in  the 
autumn  of  1770,  and  met  the  slender,  light- 
haired  daughter  of  the  village  pastor  ;  how  the 
gentleness  and  the  gayety  of  this  maiden  of 
eighteen  won  the  student's  heart,  so  that  when 
he  went  back  to  Strasburg  he  could  not  rest,  but 
must  write  her  letters,  bright,  tender,  and  infi 
nitely  winning,  and  must  send  her  verses  with  all 
the  lyric  passion  of  the  "young  Goethe"  in 
them,  and  must  ride  out  to  Sesenheim  again  and 
again,  tarrying  longer  at  each  visit,  until  it 
seemed  to  himself  and  to  all  as  if  he  "  belonged 
there;"  then  how  he  grew  restive,  perhaps 
because  his  genius  stung  him  and  he  knew  him 
self  to  be  only  twenty-one,  with  the  wide  world 
before  him  ;  how  he  leaned  down  from  the  sad 
dle  and  parted  with  her,  ill  at  ease  himself,  and 
not  daring,  probably,  to  tell  her  the  truth  ;  how 
he  wrote  a  final  letter  to  her,  only  to  find  that 
her  gentle  answer  "tore  his  heart,"  while  his 
conscience  troubled  him  a  long  time,  forcing 
279 


At  Sesenheim 


him  in  Gotz  and  Clavigo  to  do  poetic  penance ; 
how  in  journeying  southward  with  the  Duke  of 
Weimar,  eight  years  later,  he  made  a  solitary 
detour  and  visited  the  parsonage,  to  find  all  its 
inmates  unchanged  toward  him,  and  Friederike 
calm  and  affectionate  as  of  old,  so  that  the  next 
morning,  at  sunrise,  he  rode  away  from  Sesen 
heim  "in  peace,"  as  he  wrote  the  Fran  von 
Stein  ;  and  how  after  that  the  lovers  never  saw 
each  other  again,  Goethe  rising  steadily  upon 
his  splendid  and  solitary  path,  and  Friederike 
Brion,  spinster,  growing  old,  and  dying,  in 
1813,  at  her  brother's  house  in  the  tiny  village 
of  Meissenheim,  having  lived  a  life  of  such  un 
selfish  ministration  and  such  sweetness  that  an 
old  woman  who  has  survived  into  our  own  day 
tells  us  that  when  as  a  child  she  heard  about 
angels,  she  "  always  thought  of  Aunty  Brion  in 
a  white  dress,"  and  that  "the  sick,  and  chil 
dren,  and  old  people"  loved  her. 

Between  the  scraps  of  reading  we  kept  look 
ing  out  of  the  wide  -  opened  windows  of  the 
slowly  moving  train,  upon  the  fields  of  hops  and 
the  wide  reaches  of  grain  and  grass,  intersected 
here  and  there  by  lines  of  heavy  foliage,  and 
darkened  by  clumps  of  scattered  woodland.  To 
the  left  were  the  Vosges,  in  a  retreating  blue 
distance,  while  as  we  rolled  northward,  all 
280 


At  Sesenbeim 


along  on  the  right,  beyond  the  Rhine,  were  the 
wooded  summits  of  the  Black  Forest,  misty  yet 
and  shadow-barred  in  the  morning  sunlight.  It 
was  Trinity  Sunday,  and  the  peasants  in  holiday 
costume  thronged  the  station  platforms,  intent 
upon  excursions  to  neighboring  villages.  Aside 
from  the  recurrent  peasant  laughter,  the  morning 
was  perfectly  still.  After  an  hour,  we  passed 
Drusenheim.  It  was  the  place  where  Goethe 
changed  horses,  and  the  very  next  village  was 
Sesenheim. 

We  got  out.  "  It's  much  like  the  rest,  after 
all,"  said  John,  as  he  stretched  his  lank  body 
and  eyed  the  typical  modern  German  station, 
with  its  new,  neat  ugliness. 

But  Rhodora,  holding  her  skirts  together  as 
she  passed  quickly  through  a  stolid  group  of 
peasant  women,  had  already  started  around  the 
corner  of  the  building.  "Come,"  she  said, 
"  I  know  I  shall  find  my  way."  We  followed 
her  along  a  foot-path  through  a  clover  field. 
To  the  left,  over  a  fruit  orchard,  were  the  red 
dish-gray  roof  tiles  of  the  village  and  the  eight- 
sided  tower  of  Pastor  Brion's  church.  In  a 
moment  more  we  emerged  upon  the  road,  white 
in  the  glaring  June  sunlight,  and  winding  its 
way  into  Sesenheim.  As  we  passed  the  first 
houses,  a  girl  was  busily  at  work  draping  a  white 
281 


At  Sesenheim 


cloth  about  a  temporary  roadside  shrine  of  the 
Virgin,  in  honor  of  the  feast  day.  Oh,  the 
Gasthaus  zum  Anker  was  easily  to  be  found,  she 
said  ;  and  presently  we  reached  it,  standing  just 
where  the  Anker  of  Goethe's  time  stood,  close 
by  the  church. 

The  main  room  of  the  inn  proved  to  be 
deserted,  except  for  the  innkeeper's  daughter, 
and  two  or  three  peasants  quietly  taking  their 
bread  and  cheese  and  wine  in  a  corner.  The 
place  was  scrupulously  clean,  with  yellow-painted 
tables  and  benches,  after  the  Alsatian  fashion. 
Rhodora  soon  discovered  on  the  wall  a  print  of 
the  old  parsonage  and  of  the  Brion  family,  as 
the  latter  had  existed  in  the  idealizing  mind  of 
some  tolerable  artist.  The  present  parsonage 
was  modern,  the  Fraulein  smilingly  told  us,  but 
the  barn  was  just  as  it  was  when  Goethe  and 
Friederike  painted  the  old  chaise  together,  and 
had  such  ill  luck  with  the  varnishing ;  and  the 
jasmine  bower,  where  they  sat  in  the  moonlight, 
was  there,  too.  Pastor  Lucius  had  moved  away, 
but  his  successor  would  be  glad  to  show  every 
thing  to  us. 

We  had  an  Alsatian  country  dinner,  with  such 
delicious  water  that  even  "  le  bon  vin  rouge' '  was 
almost  a  superfluity,  in  a  small  room  whose 
window  looked  out  on  a  garden,  beyond  which 


At  Sesenheim 


was  the  old  gray  church.  A  faint  smell  of  June 
roses  came  in  from  the  garden.  Perhaps  it  was 
only  Rhodora's  fancy,  but  it  veritably  seemed 
as  if  we  became  aware  of  something  subtler  than 
any  rose-scent  in  the  atmosphere  of  this  place. 
There  was  a  hint  here  of  an  immortal  fragrance. 
During  the  meal  we  talked  much  of  Goethe — 
of  his  capacity  for  loving,  his  impressionable- 
ness  to  external  influences,  and  that  reflection  of 
his  actual  experiences  in  his  poetry  which  makes 
what  he  has  written  such  a  revelation  of  the 
modern  mind.  Did  his  life  turn  once  for  all, 
here  in  this  quiet  Sesenheim,  and  adopt  certain 
lines  of  choice  ?  Was  the  Sesenheim  experience 
a  spiritual  crisis  for  him,  or  was  it  only  an  inci 
dent  in  his  development,  like  his  love  affairs 
with  Annette  and  Gretchen  and  Lili  and  many 
another  ?  We  fell  to  discussing,  naturally 
enough,  his  reasons  for  breaking  faith  with  Fried  - 
erike,  and  came  no  nearer  a  solution  than  other 
people  have  done,  who  have  never  taken  dinner 
under  the  shadow  of  the  Sesenheim  church. 
Rhodora  was  inclined  to  be  lenient  with  the 
young  genius.  Would  it  have  been  wise  or  right 
for  him,  she  asked,  to  make  this  gentle  country 
girl  happy,  when  his  future  was  unsettled,  when 
the  consciousness  of  power  was  strong  within 
him,  and  he  knew  she  could  never  keep  pace 

283 


At  Seseriheim 


with  him  ?  Rhodora  is  a  brilliant  talker,  espe 
cially  with  the  odds  against  her,  and  she  was 
quicker  than  either  of  the  men,  and  knew  more 
about  Goethe.  But  John  burst  out  finally,  his 
brown  eyes  flashing,  and  his  hand  playing  ner 
vously  with  the  last  of  his  cherries  : — 

"  You  make  one  mistake,  my  dear  :  no  Ger 
man  in  Goethe's  time,  and  hardly  one  in  our 
own,  would  dream  that  his  wife  could  '  keep 
pace  with  him ;  '  and  he  would  not  want  to 
have  her  do  so,  even  if  he  believed  she  could. 
You  forget  where  you  are.  Now  do  you  sup 
pose,"  he  added,  almost  fiercely,  "that  any 
man  of  genius  has  the  right  to  break  the  heart 
of  a  girl  like  Friederike,  in  order  to  further  his 
own  '  development '  ?  " 

"But  I  think,  John,"  Rhodora  answered, 
slowly,  "  it  is  not  a  question  of  what  is  right  or 
wrong :  it  is  a  question  of  the  inevitable,  of 
something  that  would  lie  outside  the  man's 
will." 

It  seemed  to  the  Scribe  that  the  last  word 
had  been  said,  on  each  side.  Perhaps  the 
Fraulein  suspected  it,  too,  for  she  came  up  tim 
idly,  and  suggested  that  as  there  was  to  be  a 
funeral  service  in  the  church,  we  might  make 
the  best  of  the  opportunity  to  see  the  interior. 
So  we  paid  for  the  dinner,  while  Rhodora  drew 

284 


At  Sesenbeim 


on  her  tan-colored  gloves,  straightening  her 
bonnet  stealthily  before  a  cracked  glass  in  the 
main  room  of  the  inn,  and  we  strolled  over  to 
the  church,  entering  in  the  wake  of  half  a  dozen 
slowly  pacing  women.  The  edifice,  consisting 
of  a  single  narrow  nave  and  rounding  choir, 
was  built  in  the  fifteenth  century,  and  since  the 
time  of  Louis  XIV.  has  been  used  by  Roman 
Catholics  and  Protestants  alike,  as  is  often  the 
custom  in  Alsace-Lorraine.  In  the  aisle  was  a 
tombstone,  with  the  inscription  half  effaced, 
bearing  the  date  of  1557,  over  which  the  young 
Goethe's  feet  once  stepped  so  lightly;  and 
there  was  the  Pastor's  pew,  in  which,  by  the 
side  of  Friederike,  he  found  her  father's  ser 
mon  "  none  too  long."  In  the  apse  was  a  tin 
selled  altar,  with  crucifix  and  candles  and  the 
image  of  the  Virgin,  while  on  the  right  wall  of 
the  nave  was  the  pulpit,  decorated,  as  were  all 
the  windows,  with  long  green  branches  in 
honor  of  Trinity  Sunday.  The  seats  were  filled 
with  peasant  women,  in  dark,  immobile  rows  ; 
each  dressed  like  all  the  others,  in  a  black  al 
paca  gown,  a  short  sack  of  the  same  material 
edged  with  velvet  ribbon,  a  brocaded  silk  neck 
cloth,  and  a  queer  little  quilted  black  silk  cap, 
with  wide,  stiff  bows  of  ribbon  that  stood  out 
from  the  head  like  the  wings  of  a  huge,  dusky 
285 


At  Sesenbeim 


butterfly.  They  were  all  of  that  age,  from 
thirty  to  sixty-five,  when-  peasants  look  just 
alike  —  their  hair  bleached  yellow  and  their 
faces  browned  by  labor  in  the  fields ;  shrewd 
faces,  many  of  them,  with  strong  features,  but 
absolutely  untouched  by  any  lines  of  thought  ; 
with  animal  patience  and  endurance  in  them, 
and  in  the  eyes  something  of  the  expression 
that  a  dog  or  horse  has  when  he  looks  at  you 
and  does  not  understand  you.  They  were  all 
hushed  and  reverent  now,  in  the  presence  of 
the  offices  of  the  church. 

The  Lutheran  Pastor  ascended  into  the  pul 
pit,  and  read  the  formal  death  notice  of  the 
person  whose  funeral  sermon  he  was  to  preach. 
It  was  an  old  woman,  born  in  the  very  year 
that  Friederike  Brion  died.  There  had  once 
been  an  irregularity  in  her  life,  it  appeared. 
"My  beloved  ones,  this  woman  was  sinful," 
the  round-faced  blonde  young  Pastor  began, 
"  but  we  are  all  sinful."  He  paused,  and  there 
was  a  profound  stillness.  An  old  peasant  wom 
an  on  the  seat  in  front  of  us  turned  to  a  compan 
ion,  and  whispered,  the  tears  starting  from  her 
bleared  eyes,  "  Das  ist  wahr."  He  went  on 
again,  preaching  from  the  text,  "  Dust  thou 
art,"  amid  a  silence  almost  painful.  A  few 
children  sat  in  front  of  the  pulpit.  On  the  very 
286 


At  Sesenheim 


back  seat  were  three  men,  not  old,  but  with 
strangely  wrinkled .  faces,  and  all  of  them  were 
sobbing.  Through  the  open  window  near  the 
pulpit  the  June  breeze  blew  in,  making  the  lin 
den  branches  rustle  gently,  and  throw  flicker 
ing  shadows  on  the  whitewashed  wall.  The 
Scribe  found  himself  looking  at  Rhodora.  She 
sat  leaning  forward  slightly,  intent  upon  the  un 
familiar  language;  her  gloved  hands  clasped 
and  resting  in  her  lap,  her  jaunty  brown  jacket 
loosened  ;  a  touch  of  color  in  her  face,  her  gray 
eyes  wide  and  never  moving  from  the  Pastor, 
her  thin  lips  parted.  Beyond  this  delicate, 
sensitive,  highly  organized  American  woman, 
curiously  out  of  place  here,  were  the  rows  of 
Alsatian  peasants,  whose  lives  were  narrowed 
down  to  Sesenheim  and  the  fields  around  it. 
"  Dust  thou  art,"  the  preacher  kept  reiterating ; 
ay,  but  of  what  different  clay,  and  how  differ 
ently  breathed  upon  !  Yet  here,  in  this  out-of- 
the-way  corner  of  the  world,  in  the  presence  of 
these  reverent  souls  and  these  solemn  words, 
life  seemed  all  of  a  sudden  very  simple  and  to 
be  tested  by  simple  standards,  whether  the  life 
be  Goethe's  or  a  peasant  woman's. 

We  came  out  into  the  full  glow  of  the  after 
noon.  Along  a  stone  wall  that  inclosed  the 
churchyard  were  ranged  a  dozen  boys,  waiting 

287 


At  Sesenlmrn 


for  the  sermon  to  come  to  an  end.  "  Just  as 
if  it  were  a  New  England  country  meeting 
house  !  "  laughed  John.  The  short  grass  of  the 
churchyard  was  covered  with  small  wrhite  dai 
sies  ;  some  geese  toddled  away  from  us  as  we 
wandered  around  to  look  for  the  gravestones  of 
the  elder  Brions,  which  we  found  leaning  up 
against  the  outer  wall  of  the  church,  with  name 
and  date  almost  illegible  :  and  all  this  was  more 
like  a  country  churchyard  in  the  Old  England 
than  in  the  New.  The  sexton  came  out  soon, 
bringing  the  Protestant  Bible,  and  a  procession 
of  white-robed  girls,  ready  to  be  confirmed  that 
afternoon  in  the  Romanist  faith,  was  already 
waiting  at  the  door.  They  were  homely  brown 
little  things  ;  we  looked  in  vain  for  a  graceful 
Friederike.  But  Rhodora  took  a  sudden  fancy 
to  one  of  them,  a  stooping,  shy  girl  with  great 
unworldly  eyes,  and  went  up  and  spoke  to  her. 
What  she  said  we  did  not  know  ;  perhaps  the  Al 
satian  did  not,  but  the  dark  sad  eyes  smiled  for 
a  moment,  and  she  actually  turned  and  nodded 
at  Rhodora,  as  the  awkward  procession  filed 
into  the  porch.  Women  are  curious  creatures. 
We  walked  over  to  the  parsonage  and  gazed 
at  the  historic  barn,  while  John  reached  his 
long  arm  over  the  fence  and  plucked  a  blos 
som  from  the  famous  jasmine  bush.  Just  as 


At  Sesenheim 


Rhodora  was  protesting  that  she  did  not  care 
to  enter  the  new-fangled  house,  even  to  see  one 
of  Friederike's  letters,  the  rosy-cheeked  pastor 
appeared  at  the  door,  and  asked  if  he  could  be 
of  any  service.  We  looked  at  Rhodora.  She 
accepted  the  offer  with  prompt  wilfulness,  and 
with  a  superlative  expression  of  gratitude  in  her 
queer  German  that  must  have  amused  the  dom 
inie.  We  all  began  to  feel  a  little  like  tour 
ists  now,  and  rather  ashamed  of  ourselves, 
though  the  pastor  made  a  charming  host,  and 
explained  why  the  old  parsonage  was  torn 
down,  and  when  the  jasmine  bush  was  trans 
planted,  and  how  he  had  had  to  study  Dichtung 
und  Wahrheit  in  order  to  answer  visitors'  ques 
tions  ;  and  finally  he  took  us  to  his  library, 
where  some  of  Friederike's  letters  are  preserved. 
But  a  yellowed  old  letter  counts  for  so  little 
after  it  is  framed  and  hung  !  Something,  del 
icate  and  intangible,  escapes.  After  we  had 
put  our  names  in  the  visitors'  book — we  were 
almost  the  only  ones  from  America — we  came 
away,  with  a  consciousness  that  antiquarianism 
and  curiosity,  that  prose,  in  short,  had  breathed 
its  spirit  for  a  moment  upon  our  hitherto  un 
spoiled  Sesenheim  idyl. 

Fortunately,  the  best  was  yet  to  come.     We 
walked  down  the  winding  white  road  again, 
289 


At  Sesenheim 


past  the  straggling  cottages — white,  too,  except 
where  the  great  weather-beaten  beams  ef  the 
framework  were  left  exposed,  crossing  the  plas 
tered  walls  at  all  odd  angles — and  on  out  of 
the  village  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  in  search  of 
the  spot  whither  most  German  pilgrims  to  Sesen 
heim  first  direct  their  steps,  the  hillock  where 
Friederike  passed  many  an  hour  in  that  favorite 
arbor  of  which  Goethe  himself  has  had  so  much 
to  say.  We  found  the  place  easily  enough. 
Some  Goethe  lovers  have  bought  the  hillock, 
which  proved  to  be  an  ancient  burial-mound, 
and  have  erected  a  new  arbor,  bearing  the  in 
scription  "  Friederiken  Ruh,  1770-1880."  It 
commands  a  characteristic  Alsatian  view  :  in 
front,  to  the  west,  the  village  peeping  through 
its  abundant  trees;  to  right  and  left,  the  wide- 
sweeping  fertile  plains,  fed  by  slow  watercourses 
and  interspersed  with  forest  land  ;  while  on  the 
east  stretches  the  long  line  of  trees  that  mark 
the  course  of  the  Rhine,  beyond  which  lie  the 
northern  heights  of  the  Black  Forest,  as  they 
group  themselves  brokenly  about  Baden-Baden. 
The  arbor  itself  was  too  slender  to  shield  us 
much  from  the  June  sun,  so  we  took  refuge  under 
a  great  ash  in  the  adjacent  meadow  ;  and  lying 
upon  the  hay,  mown  the  day  before,  we  watched 
for  hours  the  white  clouds  drift  across  the  heaven 
290 


At  Sesenbeim 


and  pile  themselves  into  a  huge,  glistening  mass 
above  the  Black  Forest.  Our  talk  wandered, 
too,  apparently  as  inconsequently  as  the  clouds, 
but  it  always  drifted  back  to  Goethe.  Toward 
sundown  we  strolled  up  to  the  arbor  again,  and 
waited  for  the  train  which  was  to  carry  us  back 
to  Strasburg.  It  was  a  pompous  sunset,  with 
slow- fading  splendors  that  suffused  the  light  flecks 
of  cloud  far  in  the  south  and  north,  and  tinged 
with  a  rim  of  fire  the  great  cloud  rampart  above 
Baden.  We  strained  our  eyes  toward  Stras 
burg,  fancying  that  we  could  see  the  minster 
spire,  a  speck  against  that  saffron  sky,  but  the 
light  faded  out  before  we  were  quite  sure.  The 
wide  landscape  darkened  gradually ;  we  heard 
the  nightingales  in  the  deep  woods  along  the 
Rhine.  Just  before  the  whistle  of  our  train 
sounded  from  Niederbronn,  Rhodora  rose  and 
left  us  for  a  moment.  We  could  see  her  bend 
ing  in  the  dusk  above  one  of  the  bushes  near  the 
arbor;  then  she  came  back  with  some  white 
primroses  in  her  hand.  She  gave  us  each  one, 
and  stuck  a  third  through  the  buttonhole  of  her 
jacket.  There  was  just  one  left.  John  took  it 
suddenly,  and,  reaching  up,  fastened  it  in  the 
lattice  of  Friederike's  arbor.  "  Why,  of  course, 
John  !  "  said  Rbodora,  softly.  "The  poor  girl !  " 
Then  she  took  John's  arm,  and  we  came  away. 

291     **/ 


c 


I*. 


